Drink not the daily draught of fears
that changeth not a million years,
for all the seasons we live to know
shall rest its pains within its snows,
so, let our sight with onward looking eyes
mock the melancholy of our fateful sighs,
with all its anger that gloom doth borrow,
that's conceived again with each tomorrow,
for each hour we court shall be no more
as silence steals its once mighty roar,
for, impotent lies the futures ill intent
when we in mirth our days are spent,
as the blood runs fast, enjoy this happy hour,
or, forever endure life's darkened bower.