The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket

Dry as dust

There's not a nook within this solemn pass/ But were an apt confessional for one/ Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,/ That life is but a tale of morning grass/ Withered at eve.

Our hearts are like polished mirrors. We need to wipe it clean regularly of the dust that gathers on it.

Think to yourself, is it too windy or dry to burn? Well then, if it is, I'm not going to burn today.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself it only live and die.