Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem. - Ernest Dowson

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Say, doth she weep for very wantonness?
Or is it that she dimly doth foresee
Across her youth the joys grow less and less,
The burden of the days that are to be:
Autumn and withered leaves and vanity
And winter bringing end in barrenness.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.<p>They are not long, the days of wine and roses;
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.