No golden cowslip lifts its head,
Scarce can the grass its spires sustain,
Chilled by the frost, or drenched with rain.
Alas! just thus with life it fares.
Our youth like smiling spring appears,
Allied to joy, unbroke with cares;
But swiftly fly those cheerful hours,
Like falling leaves, or fading flowers;
We quickly hasten to decline,
And ev’ry sprightly joy resign: