I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain - Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies - The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
O friend, for the morrow let us not worry This moment we have now, let us not hurry When our time comes, we shall not tarry With seven thousand-year-olds, our burden carry
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light
