Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears
- Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand Years
Never Blows So Red
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
That every hyacinth the garden wears;
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head.