Time, like to sand from out the glass, unceasing flows away;
Then wherefore deem to-morrow more worth than yesterday?
The fairest rose the future knows Time darkling will entomb
With the rose that breathed in Persia, long since, its rare perfume.
If sands of time, effacing, flow, then what—ah, what of fame?
Nothing is lost that blesses the hour to which it came;
Nay, questioning heart, which gave it most the world itself knows not—
The song that is remembered, the song that is forgot.