Tempus Fugit

Lovely Spring,

A brief sweet thing,

Is swift on the wing;

Gracious Summer,

A slow sweet comer,

Hastens past;

Autumn while sweet

Is all incomplete

With a moaning blast,--

Nothing can last,

Can be cleaved unto,

Can be dwelt upon;

It is hurried through,

It is come and gone,

Undone it cannot be done,

It is ever to do,

Ever old, ever new,

Ever waxing old

And lapsing to Winter cold.