While there is yet the color of the rose
And of the lily in your countenance,
And while the burning candor of your glance
Can fire the heart and yet constrain its throes;
And while yet that soft hair of yours which flows
From a gold vein, in a disheveled dance
Is tangled by wind's sudden dalliance
As round that lovely proud white neck it blows,
Gather the harvest from your joyous spring
Of sweetest fruit before Time comes in rage
Of snow to cover that fair peak at last.
The rose will wither in the wind's chill blast.
So changing everything comes flighty Age
Never to change its way for anything.