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 
    Tumble 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.