My heart is like a singing bird.
And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.
The violets whisper from the shade Which their own leaves have made: Men scent our fragrance on the air, Yet take no heed Of humble lessons we would read.
The downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.
All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass.
Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.