Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say: / Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

To-morrow? - Why, To-morrow I may be / Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! / The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, / Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!