Alas! that every lovely thing
Lives only but for withering,—
That spring rainbows and summer shine
End but in autumn's pale decline.

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs’d in dew,
Anemonies that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands, her wreaths again.
Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why has happiness—no second spring?

My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?

Youth’s bright palace Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled—
All hath crumbled But grief alone!Whither, O whither Have fled away
The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruin’d and grey
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded— Ah, where are they?Once this world Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon And its starry night: Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I bless’d the Giver With hush’d delight.Youth’s illusions One by one
Have pass’d like clouds That the sun look’d on. While morning shone,
How purple their fringes!
How ashy their tinges When that was gone!As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp—
As meteors are quench’d In a stagnant swamp— Thus Charlemagne’s camp
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond valley, And the Wonderful Lamp,And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun’s rambles, And Crusoe’s isle, And Princes who smile
On the Genii’s daughters
’Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,And all that the pen Of Fancy can write
Must vanish in manhood’s Misty light; Squire and Knight,
And damosel’s glances,
Sunny romances, So pure and bright!These have vanish’d, And what remains?
Life’s budding garlands Have turn’d to chains— Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles O’er desert plains.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away.
Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart,
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

Flowers fade and fly, and flying fill the sky;
Their bloom departs, their perfume gone, yet who stands pitying by? ...
Oh, let me sadly bury them beside these steps to-night! ...
Farewell, dear flowers, for ever now, thus buried as 'twas best,
I have not yet divined when I with you shall sink to rest.
I who can bury flowers like this a laughing-stock shall be;
I cannot say in days to come what hands shall bury me.
See how when spring begins to fail each opening floweret fades;
So too there is a time of age and death for beauteous maids;
And when the fleeting spring is gone, and days of beauty o'er,
Flowers fall, and lovely maidens die, and both are known no more.

How sad, however, if we're given
Our youth as something to betray,
And what if youth in turn is driven
To cheat on us, each hour, each day,
If our most precious aspirations,
Our freshest dreams, imaginations
In fast succession have decayed,
As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade.
It is too much to see before one
Nothing but dinners in a row,
Behind the seemly crowd to go,
Regarding life as mere decorum,
Having no common views to share,
Nor passions that one might declare.

As every flower fades and as all youth departs, so life at every stage, So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.

And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!

How fading are the joys we dote upon! Like apparitions seen and gone. But those which soonest take their flight
Are the most exquisite and strong,— Like angels’ visits, short and bright;
Mortality ’s too weak to bear them long.

All that's bright must fade,— The brightest and the fleetest; All that's sweet was made, But to be lost when sweetest.

These flowers, which were splendid and sprightly,
Waking in the dawn of the morning,
In the evening will be a pitiful frivolity,
Sleeping in the cold night’s arms.

Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I 've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away.
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well
And love me, it was sure to die.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.<p>But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.