How many rose-buds have I seen decay,
While thistles flaunt their colors in the light.
I pluck nor buds, nor full-blown roses now,
Your tender charms from me have naught to fear;
No rosy wreath awaits this wrinkled brow,
Let regal youth the crown and sceptre bear.
Weary of strife, of cold, vain theorems,
Of counting spots upon the sun’s fair face,
Would that a bed beneath your friendly stems
Were hollowed for my final resting-place.