That made me think of this poem. I may have posted it here before, but nommatter. It's by Padraig Pearse, and I've seen it said it was the last poem he wrote before he was shot in 1916 after the Easter Rising. I don't know whether that is true or not. Anyway it ties in with the fragility of the world at the time it's most beautiful.

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world has made me sad
This beauty that will pass.

Sometimes my heart has shaken with great joy
to see a leaping squirrel on a tree
or a red ladybird upon a stalk.
Or little rabbits, in a field at evening,
lit by a slanty sun.

Or some green hill, where shadows drifted by,
some quiet hill,
where mountainy man has sown,
and soon will reap,
near to the gate of heaven.

Or little children with bare feet
upon the sands of some ebbed sea;
or playing in the streets
of little towns in Connacht.

Things young and happy.

And then my heart has told me -
these will pass,
will pass and change,
will die and be no more.

Things bright, and green.
Things young, and happy.

And I have gone upon my way, sorrowful.