Youth Sings a Song of Rosebuds

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 song

Of '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 I

Can fan into a fire.