Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! / That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close! / The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, / Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say: / Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.