Gather Rose-Buds

While this green month is fleeting,
Oh! come, my pretty sweeting,
Waste not in vain thy ring-time!
Sly age, ere we've an inkling
Thereof, our hair is sprinkling —
He passeth even as Spring-time.

Then, while our life is crying
For love, and Time is flying,
Come, love, come reap desire.
Pass love from vein to vein!
Swift comes old Death — and then
All joys expire.