What though the first pure snowdrop wilt and die?

What though the cuckoo, having come, is gone?

Clouds cold with gloom assail the sun-sweet sky

And night's dark curtains tell that day is done? -

This is our earthly fate. Howe'er we range

Life and its dust are in perpetual change

What though, then, Sweet, as welling time wins on

The early roses in thy cheeks shall ail?

When they have bloomed, it's not thyself shall wan

Nor for lost music shall thy heart-strings fail

That self's thine own. And all that age can bring

Love will make lovely. Then another Spring!