See from yon Bough a Blossom falls,
Sad emblem of the waning Spring;
No plaint the passing wind recalls,
Which bears it on with fluttering wing.

What tho' the meads be croun'd with flowers,
And Nature smiles in livery gay:
Comes the rough blast and chilling showers
To nip the bud that bloom'd in May.

Then hear my vows, my lovely maid,
Nor let the golden minutes fly;
Why cherish that which soon must fade
To lose what Ages cannot buy?