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Alas! youth fades, the inmost longing wanes,
Wild roses in their season clustering bloomed,
But on some autumn morning there remains
A twig, thorn-laden, doomed.

And shallow joy, frail bliss and moments sweet,
The ruthless time into the distance carries,
The summer-tide of life, so fleet, so fleet,
And a long autumn tarries.

Our lot is sad. By coming into life
We are but into Death's dominion borne,
Whereof are sorrow, woes, our livelong strife
An overture forlorn.

Our soul can foster for a span of hours
Only the thoughts from which the tears can flow,
Like fallow-land, whereon there bloom no flowers,
But only brambles grow.


"Third Book of Lyrics".