Youth Sings a Song of Rosebuds
(To Roberta)
SINCE men grow diffident at last,And care no whit at all,If spring be come, or the fall be past,Or how the cool rains fall,
I come to no flower but I pluck,I raise no cup but I sip,For a mouth is the best of sweets to suck;The oldest wine’s on the lip.
If I grow old in a year or two,And come to the querulous songOf “Alack and aday” and “This was true,And that, when I was young,”
I must have sweets to remember by,Some blossom saved from the mire,Some death-rebellious ember ICan fan into a fire.