Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

I hide my distress, just likethe blessed birds hide themselveswhen they are preparing to die. Wine! Wine, roses, music and yourindifference to my sadness, my loved-one!

Oh, the brave Music of a distant drum!

Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely - they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scattered, and their mouths are stopped with Dust.