Ode On The Spring (excerpt)

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of Man:

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest:

Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,

Or chilled by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—

We frolic while 'tis May.