The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou.
Oh! My beloved! fill the cup, that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears.
You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; favored old barren reason from my bed, and took the daughter of the vine to spouse.
The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.