Life is the morning dew;
'Tis true, but well-a-day!

Soon the mighty storm wind's raging,
Fruit and leaves will be its prey,
Flowers unpetaled meet their fate.
If you love a flower, take it,
Since tomorrow 'tis too late.

Saddle your steed and mount it now.
Homeward with speed, O! we know how!
The road that the gentlest zephyr takes —
Home! — Home! — where the spring awakes!

All the town is aware
Except her own husband.

I never wished to see your face, new year,
And yet you come as new years came before
A woman died, whose lovely lips and dear,
Most dear, dark eyes I shall behold no more.

Ah, human life is a drama
Which cannot be produced again.

The night she sees a play,
A woman hates her husband.

A negress feels relieved,
Giving birth to a negro.

She leaves the puddle where she drinks,
And comes toward the roadway bar
And looks into our eyes, and thinks
What curious animals we are!

Oh, grave-mound, move!
My wailing is the autumn wind.