It appears poets err in glamorising
nature, be't Shakespeare’s darling buds of May,
or Wordsworth’s dancing daffodils, or Shelley’s
skylark, Keats’ nightingale, the ode to autumn.
The swooning over nature’s forms, of Byron’s
moonlight, Wilde’s church of nature, every poet
who has exempted nature’s beauty from
the evidence of decay; even Jesus
in his choice of the lilies of the field
to outdo Solomon in all his glory,
lilies, the Bard later says, festering
smell far worse than weeds, might appear to err;
but that beauty is undeniable
exempts it from the natural cast of things
where it fades, the Bard ruefully confirms,
that Christ by faith restores in resurrection.