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.

It took me far less than 30 seconds. In fact, it took 0.45 seconds on Google.

Ditto.

Okay, I claim to be the first one to recognize this without resorting to Google. It has the inimitable touch of Dorothy Parker.

Second; I didn't bother to reply. I'd read it before and can't quite think why we were supposed not to have.