What though the first pure snowdrop wilt and die?
 What though the cuckoo, having come, is gone?
 Clouds cold with gloom assail the sun-sweet sky,
 And night's dark curtains tell that day is done? -
 This is our earthly fate. Howe'er we range,
 Life and its dust are in perpetual change.

 What though, then, Sweet, as welling time wins on,
 The early roses in thy cheeks shall ail?
 When they have bloomed, it's not thyself shall wan,
 Nor for lost music shall thy heart-strings fail.
 That self's thine own. And all that age can bring
 Love will make lovely. Then another Spring!