Why weep ye? This flower was made
So that it could be picked and die;
The starlet blossom’s not afraid.
The same shall pass to you and I.

Death meets even its brethren buds
By bugs, pests, or inclement climes,
Like those who’ve cast their petal duds
Early, in season, or betimes—

Just like those that lay on the ground,
A pile of mush and rotten things,
And those withered where stems abound.
Don’t you know we’re all just playthings?