THE TIME OF THE ROSES 129 



Each of them sparkles afar like a gem. 

 Wouldst thou be smiling and happy like them ? 

 O follow all counsel that pleasure proposes ! 

 It dies, it flies, the time of the roses. 



Pity the roses ! Each rose is a maiden 

 Pranked, and with jewels of dew overladen : 

 Pity the maidens ! The moon of their bloom 

 Rises to set in the cells of the tomb. 

 Life has its winter ; when summer is gone, 

 Maidens, like roses, lie stricken and wan. 

 Tho' bright as the burning bush of Moses, 

 Soon fades, fair maids, the time of your roses. 



Lustre and odours, and blossoms and flowers, 

 All that is richest in garden and bowers, 

 Teach us morality, speak of mortality, 

 Whisper that life is a sad unreality. 

 Death is the end of that lustre, those odours : 

 Brilliance and beauty are gloomy foreboders 

 To him who knows what this world of woes is, 

 And sees how flees the time of the roses ! 



Heed them not, hear themJ not ! Morning is 



blushing, 



Perfumes are wandering, fountains are gushing. 

 What tho' the rose, like a virgin forbidden, 

 Long under leafy pavilion lay hidden ? 

 Now, far around as the vision can stretch, 

 Wreaths for the pencils of angels to sketch, 

 Festoon the tall hills that the landscape discloses. 

 O sweet, tho' fleet, is the time of the roses ! 



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