WHILE this green month is fleeting, Oh! come, my pretty sweeting, Waste not in vain thy ring-time! Sly age, ere we've an inkling Thereof, our hair is sprinkling -- He passeth even as Spring-time. Then, while, our life is crying For love, and Time is flying, Come, love, come reap desire. Pass love from vein to vein! Swift comes old Death -- and then All joys expire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON VISION OF BELSHAZZAR by GEORGE GORDON BYRON HEAVEN by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST A WATERPIECE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |