To My Beloved

Pluck we the roses—let us pluck the roses,
O my sweet maiden! when we find them blooming;
While they are smiling 'midst their thorny branches,
Pluck we the roses.

Bright as they seem, the spirit of perdition
Sweeps them ere morning: shall we lose the transports
Now pressing round us, in the distant dreaming
Future may promise?

All that we have is blended in the present;
Chances and changes trifle with the future;
Oft 'tis its task to mingle in joy's chalice
Drops of dark poison.