With blossoms that coil and decay,
Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted
Like ices in May.
Hushed now is the bibulous bubble
Of "lithe and lascivious" throats;
Long stript and extinct is the stubble
Of hoary and harvested oats;
From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's
The bees have abortively swarmed;
And Algernon's earlier morals