No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.