So Fair, That All The Morning Aches With Such Monotony! So Brief, That Sadness Breaks The Brittle Spell. Nothing So Fair, Nothing So Brief: The Sun Leaps Up And Falls. The Wind Tosses Every Leaf: Every Leaf Dies. Blossom, A White Cloud In The Air, Is Blown Like A Cloud Away. Must All Be Brief, Being Fair? Nothing Remain? Yes, Night And That High Regiment Of Stars That Wheel And March, Ever Their Bright Lines Bent To A Secret Thought; Moving Immutable, Bright And Grave, Fair Beyond All Things Fair; Though All Else Vanish, Save Imagination'S Dream.