An Epicurean's Song

The visits of Sorrow Say, why should we mourn? Since the sun of to-morrow May shine on its urn; And all that we think such pain Will have departed,—then Bear for a moment what cannot return;

For past time has taken Each hour that it gave, And they never awaken From yesterday's grave; So surely we may defy Shadows, like memory, Feeble and fleeting as midsummer wave.

From the depths where they're falling Nor pleasure, nor pain, Despite our recalling, Can reach us again; Though we brood over them, Nought can recover them, Where they are laid, they must ever remain.

So seize we the present, And gather its flowers, For,—mournful or pleasant,— 'Tis all that is ours; While daylight we're wasting, The evening is hasting, And night follows fast on vanishing hours.

Yes,—and we, when night comes, Whatever betide, Must die as our fate dooms, And sleep by their side; For change is the only thing Always continuing; And it sweeps creation away with its tide.