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3 Bubbles of colour striking through the bleak Dun soil, surprising, in a week, As the low desert flowers after rain Leap into being where they were not seen Few hours before, and soon are gone again. How fair the flowers unaware That do not know what beauty is! Fair without knowing they are fair, With poets and gazelles they share Another world than this. They can but die, and not betray As friends or love betray the heart. They can but live their pretty day And do no worse than simply play Their brief sufficient part. They cannot break the heart, as friend Or love may split our love for ever. We never asked them to pretend: Death is a clean sufficient end For flower, friend, or lover. Though I must die, the only thing I know, My only certainty, so far ahead Or just around the corner as I go, Not knowing what the dangerous turn will bring, Only that one day I must be dead, - I still will sing with credence and with passion In a new fashion That I will believe in April while I live. I will believe in Spring, That custom of the year, so frail, so brave, Custom without loss of mystery. NEXT MEETING: Wednesday, April 22, 1992 at 7:00 p.m. Tony Scammell Editor