1. Alas, for Spring that takes the roses hence,
So we no more their loveliness may see.

2. For Youth folds up his gilded documents
And still their opening brings new joy to me.

3. Where, where's the Nightingale that singing flew
Among the boughs and trilled his song for us?

4. He's gone, if news of him you chance to do,
And will our questioning now useless thus?