What comfort now, when summer days have fled,
Have you, O heart, that in the sunshine basked?
Have ye, O hands, that held all that was asked?
For all your fruits and flowers lie frosted, dead.
You did not dream amid the roses red,
Gold-hearted, scented, which your green bowers masked,
That cold would come, and with it wild winds tasked
To tear away the garlands from your head.

O lover of red roses and red wine,
O scorner of Christ's Blood, to whom a prayer
Brought thoughts of dying, shudders, and vague fear,
Will dreams of pleasure and past joys of thine
Make dreary winter hours more bright and fair
Amid your dust and ashes? Death is here.