The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;

   That every Hyacinth the Garden wears

Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this delightful Herb whose tender Green

Fledges the River’s Lip on which we lean—

   Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows

From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears

TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears—

   To- morrow?—Why, To-morrow I may be

Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best

That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,

   Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to Rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room

They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,

   Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth

Descend, ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into the Dust descend;

   Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and— sans End!