My friend, when Autumn comes, bearing Winter with it, let us keep one thought; not of Spring to come, belonging to another, nor yet of Summer, when we're dead, but of what's left of what is passing--- The yellowing of these leaves now--- making them different...

I the roses love in the garden
    of Montserrat,
My Friend,
I love those fast fleeting roses
    that on the day they were born.
On that same day they die.
Light for them is everlasting;
    born after the sun comes up,
    they die before Apollo rounds
    his visible track.
So let us make our life a single day,
and willingly ignore the night to come,
    The night already past,
    The little while we last.