But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour—
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee—but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,