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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a flying
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun
The higher he's a getting
The sooner will his race be run
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.
Tori Amos - Winter
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