Vita, Vita!

The flight of the years pursues me. And nothing is done! Nor gained, nor made, nor accomplished-- Only Youth--lost. Slave to the pleasure that fetters, (nor would be free,) Tired of the light before the disk of the sun Is more than half of a circle! Stunned at the cost Of full free living, and nothing wherewith to pay The long close score that blights with its fearful truth-- But my Youth.