A Never-ending Meditation

I can't stop meditating on this poem by Christina Rossetti.  It's the end of summer.  It's the end of life.  It's the end.

                   Summer is Ended

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bless,
If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we cannot re-bend.