I sometimes think that never blows so red

The Rose* as where some buried Cæsar bled;

Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green

Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean —

From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears

TO-DAY of past Regret and future Fears:

Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.*

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,

And one by one crept silently to rest.