Mellifluous Mondays: yet stand They here enraptured

this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

-ee cummings

Colours indeed "come and go," in and out with the seasons. Just as places and people drift in and out of our lives. Just as our lives themselves flourish, then curl, then fall withered into the inevitable gloom of mortality. We have left that first perfect garden for a universe of pain.

Yet the song goes on. And that silver-fingered Fountain of Life washes over the groaning, broken world with a glorious promise of someday salvation.