All things that pass
                Are woman's looking-glass;
They show her how her bloom must fade,
And she herself be laid
With withered roses in the shade;
        With withered roses and the fallen peach,
        Unlovely, out of reach
                Of summer joy that was.

                All things that pass
                Are woman's tiring-glass;
The faded lavender is sweet,
Sweet the dead violet
Culled and laid by and cared for yet;
        The dried-up violets and dried lavender
        Still sweet, may comfort her,
                Nor need she cry Alas!

                All things that pass
                Are wisdom's looking-glass;
Being full of hope and fear, and still
Brimful of good or ill,
According to our work and will;
        For there is nothing new beneath the sun;
        Our doings have been done,
                And that which shall be was.