I Do Not Lament, Call Out, Or Cry
I do not lament, call out, or cry. All will pass like apple-blossom smoke. Seized by golden glories of decay, I shan't see my youthful years come back. You'll no longer throb with equal passion, Weary heart touched with a subtle chill; Nor will you, green realm of birchen satin, Lure me barefoot over dale and hill . Vagrant spirit! Nowadays you scarcely Stir these lips' abiding secret blaze. Ah, goodbye, my boyish effervescence, Riot of eyes, and sentiments in spates! I've become more frugal in my yearning. My dear life, are you a dream where I In the echoes of an early morning Mount a rosy steed and gallop by? We're all mortal here without exception. Maples shed their copper on the ground. Blessed be, accept this benediction, What has come to bloom and face its end.