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.
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