To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose
                        Scentless, colorless, this!
        Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
                                Thus with our bliss,
                If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
                        Sooner, later, at last,
        Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
                                An end locked fast,
                Bent we cannot re-bend.