Song

If space and time, as sages say,

    Are things which cannot be,

The fly that lives a single day

    Has lived as long as we.

But let us live while yet we may,

    While love and life are free,

For time is time, and runs away,

    Though sages disagree.

The flowers I sent thee when the dew

    Was trembling on the vine,

Were withered ere the wild bee flew

    To suck the eglantine.

But let us haste to pluck anew

    Nor mourn to see them pine,

And though the flowers of love be few

    Yet let them be divine.