Though old age bows it does not know The misty hills where beauty goes And by no hands can it be led To the fading west where Beauty's fled. The winter sun beats down on those Who battle against their earned repose For while the springs of you won't die They have their snares and tempting lies Old men! Make your peace with time Before you shift below the lime Don't hold in your hands a wilted rose Whose scent's gone to where all beauty goes.