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.