Music, the mosaic of the air.

Art indeed is long, but life is short.

Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.

How vainly men themselves amaze, / To win the palm, the oak, or bays; / And their incessant labours see / Crowned from some single herb or tree.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run

So much one man can do that does both act and know.

No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where s'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.