Winter Honeysuckle

The winter honeysuckle is not sweet.
The dreary air is not filled with its scent.
The blooms which come with summer's intense heat
Make mockery and show up the descent
Into delusion, called encouragement.
To give us hope and buoy us up we let deceit
Take on the role of truth and don't repent.
The winter honey suckle is not sweet.
Of course some days are good, the sunlit street
Crowded with such happy goings on that we relent,
Forgetting death does not exchange: there's no receipt.
The dreary air is not filled with its scent,
We are not morbid, nor do we resent
The happiness of youth; we are not finished, though replete
Too familiar with capabilities' extent.
The blooms which come with summer's intense heat
Leave memories to treasure; time is fleet.
But in remembering we mistake and happiness seems sent
To try us: scenes from youth remind us of defeat,
Make mockery and show up the descent
Into this world of failing health.  Yet we are meant
To keep on blooming, pale, waxy flowers, small and neat
And fragrant, so there's no argument;
Our offspring needn't fear old age; it blooms in sleet:
The winter honeysuckle.