FROM LAMARTINE.
Almond-bough with blossom rife,
Pride of beauty picturing;
Blooms like thee the flow’r of life,
Blooms and withers in the spring.
Missed or gathered, prized or slighted,
Still from wreath and fingered spray
One by one its petals, blighted,
Pass, like pleasures day by day.
Taste we then its brief delight,
Ere the stealthy winds go by;
Drain the laughing chalice quite,
Drink the perfume that must die.
Oft is beauty like the flow’r
Gathered for a guest at morn,
And before the festal hour
From his chilly temples torn.
One day ends: another breaks;
Spring and all her sweets decay;
Every leaf the light wind takes
Whispers, “Gather while ye may.”
Since the rose is doomed to perish—
Perish, pass, nor bloom again,
Lovers’ lips her blossom cherish,
Love her dying sweets detain.