The eternal transcience

Little petal’s white on the grass
They have been thrown – simply to pass

Noble peacock’s call in the grove
They have been reared – only to rove

Tender lamb’s black on the green
They have been bred – plainly to wean

Gentle mother’s tears on the face
They have been sent – purely to brace

Greater grief will lapse in season
It has been cast  – surely with reason