Thou too, the beautiful and bright,
At Pleasure’s shrine devoutly kneeling,
Dost thou not see the fatal blight
Across thy roseate chaplet stealing?
Time hath not touched with fingers cold
Those glossy leaves of beauty’s mould,
And yet each bud and blossom gay
Is marked for slow but sure decay.
O! ye who sigh for flowers that bloom
In one eternal spring of gladness,