I object to objections to "towards." I pronounce it as one syllable generally, but it is clear what the meter wants me to do, and rather than be intransigent, I oblige. Everyone should be like me.
I read this without recognizing or worrying too much about the title, and I found it a nice poem about getting old, in the vein (if not the league) of 'that time of year thou mayst in me behold.' (I'm not hugely fond of lines 5-6, which seem competent but unexceptional.) I also didn't worry about the flowers, though from Catherine's careful explication, I see that I missed a lot. But I thought it was perfectly comprehensible without all that. The explication adds layers, but it is unnecessary to basic understanding.
It's baffling that the meter has garnered so much discussion. The poem is metrically FINE, even accomplished. But all the meter chat feels like the old days, when this place was more about coloring in the lines than it has since become.
The poem is pretty, and good. Doesn't set me on fire, but so much the worse for me.
Chris
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