Why should we sigh o’er a summer that’s dead—
Let us think of the summer to be.
It always better to look ahead,
For the rose will come again just as red
And just as fair to see.

Why should we weep o’er a pleasure past—
Let us look for the pleasure to be.
New shells on the shore by new waves are cast;
Let us prize each new joy more than the last,
And laugh if the old joy flee.

What folly to die for a love that was—
Let us live for the one to be.
For time is passing, and will not pause;
How foolish the shore were it sad because
One wave ebbed out to sea.

Then let us not sing of a year that is fled—
Though dear its memory be:
For though summer and pleasure and love seem dead,
Love will be sweet, and the rose will be red
When they blossom for you and me.