Over the widening stream’s wild waves, eke, skims
It merrily. The tiny steersman hymns
His roundelay of Joy, or at his will,
Plucks the gay flowers of early morn,
Which diamond dew-drops, silver-like, adorn—
Unmindful that such pleasures fade away,
That youth, and love, and beauty soon decay—
Life is a launch—we voyage to the grave,
We venture on, unthoughtful of the whelming wave.