O heart, be not dismayed
that fair should prove so brittle:
love, as the summers fade,
must droop a little.
Time grays the golden locks,
even the loveliest things
with the chiming of his clocks
fail like forgotten springs.

O love, have no regrets
that the rose should fade, and the bay:
there's quiet, where the heart forgets
in the end, they say;
where earth's harsh storms are dumb,
and the skies no longer weep,
and the leaves and the flowers come
and lie in their olden sleep.