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By Aubrey De Vere

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,

Crumbling away beneath our very feet;

Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing,

In current unperceived because so fleet;

Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,

But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing;

And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet;

And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;

And sweeter our life’s decline, for it hath left us

A nearer Good to cure an older Ill;

And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.