Gather ye roses while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
A world where beauty fleets away
Is no world for denying.
Come lads and lasses, fall to play
Lose no more time in sighing
The very flowers you pluck to-day
To-morrow will be dying;
And all the flowers are crying,
And all the leaves have tongues to say,-
Gather ye roses while ye may.
Some places speak distinctly.
Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder;
Certain old house demand to be haunted;
Certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks.
Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds you plant.
Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.
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