The pressure of the promise we forget,
we old ones, when we see
the pale young ones lying stricken on the floor.
We shake our heads for blighted springs,
and sheltered summers fall to wintry death;
We hoped for so much more for them than this.
Have we not learned, as they
from watching us? They know.
All things fail that strive at all.
There is no other life than strife
and blind descent from hope.
Yet something else we know:
There is beauty in the covering snow.