If, When a Man Has Thrown Himself on Flowers

If, when a man has thrown himself on flowers,
He feels a sharp flint under him and springs
Upon his legs, he feels the flint again
Tomorrow, not the flowers: they drifted down
The stream of Lethe imperceptibly.
Heavier and sooner to be now engulpht
For every surface-drop which they imbibed.
I have so much of leisure that I hate
To lose a particle; as hate the rich
To lose the dross they know not to employ;
Else would I moralize a good half-hour
On pleasure and its sequences, and speak
As ill of them as men whom they have left
Usually do . . ungrateful, like the rest.