Tuberoses
Everything dies that lives—everything dies;
How shall we keep the flower we lov'd so long;
O press to death the transient thing we prize,
Crush it, and shut the elixir in a song.
A song is neither live nor sweet nor white;
It hath no heavenly blossom tall and pure.
No fragrance can it breathe for our delight.
It grows not, neither lives; it may endure.
Sweet Tuberose, adieu ! you fade too fast !
Only a dream, only a thought, can last.
iii.
Who'd stay to muse if Death could never wither?
Who dream a dream if Passion did not pass?
But, once deceived, poor mortals, hasten hither
To watch the world in Fancy's magic glass.
Truly your city, O men, hath no abiding!
Built on the sand it crumbles, as it must;
And as you build, above your praise and chiding.
The columns fall to crush you to the dust.
But fashion'd in the mirage of a dream.
Having nor life nor sense, a bubble of nought.
The enchanted City of the Things that Seem
Keeps till the end of time the eternal Thought.
Forswear to-day, forswearing joy and sorrow,
Forswear to-day, O man, and take to-morrow.
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