Peter S. Quinn

All things must past what of day is here born
First it gives pleasure and then it is gone,
Like a glow from dawn's new rising pylon
Light of the day that to dark is forworn;
All what to fate is impaired and forlorn
Turning to echoes like fading carillon,
Forgot in darkness what once was of dawn
First it was merry - but now it is lorn.

Dwell not on that - but forget like wish,
All must wither as this summer so sweet
That in shades and beauty welter will treat;
Like every thought that will drift from a mind,
Love is the thing that gives most anguish
And like purest of truth sometimes is blind.