All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassels; Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day Tumbled in a rainbow clutter, As she flipped them all away, Sent them spinning down the gutter. Leave for her a red young rose, Go your way, and save your pity; She is happy, for she knows That her dust is very pretty.