We frolic while 'tis May.
Rich with the spoils of time.
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!