The poetry of nostalgia:
Long before we learn how short and forlorn
Is this life of ours, we know already
Of the world of tears, as we find stillborn
All our greatest joys, observing heady
Pleasures evanesce, and merriments die
Before their time, and glee transform to grief,
And all our rich enchantments putrefy:
We come to see that every bliss is brief.
We cannot dream of springs that do not fail.
Still less, can we rely on the sublime.
The search for permanence – to no avail:
All blossoms fall. And yet I see, in time,
The cruel bitterness of this defeat
Is what makes our few moments here so sweet.