I
As long as Fame's imperious music rings
       &nbsp Will poets mock it with crowned words august;
And haggard men will clamber to be kings
       &nbsp As long as Glory weighs itself in dust.

II

Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled,
       &nbsp Nor shudder for the revels that are done:
The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled,
       &nbsp The strings that Nero fingered are all gone.

III

We cannot crown ourselves with everything,
       &nbsp Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:
No matter what we are, or what we sing,
       &nbsp Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.