And Earth itself fades from our sight away,
Like rosy clouds that flit at close of day;
In our hearts too the flame burns low at last,—
An arctic winter closes round us fast.
While the remaining grains, how few, alas!
Of golden sand, pour through the hour-glass,
Fill up, dear friends, your goblets once again,
And warm the pulses in each shrunken vein
With sunshine garnered on some Gallic plain,
Or stolen from the vine-clad hills of Spain.