One sole poet has not to sing one aged song.
The flowers fades and dies; but he who wears the flowers has not to mourn for it forever.
Love must be called from play to drink sorrow and be borne to the heaven of tears.
we hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by the passing winds.
Our life is eager,our desire are keen,for time tolls the bell of parting.
The hours trip rapidly away,hiding their dreams in their skirts.
Our life is short; it yields but a few days for love.
But earth’s flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by death.