The Spring Is Gone, The Summer-Beauty Wanes, Like Setting Sunbeams, In Their Last Decline; As Evening Shadows, Lingering On The Plains, Gleam Dim And Dimmer Till They Cease To Shine: The Busy Bee Hath Humm'D Himself To Rest; Flowers Dry To Seed, That Held The Sweets Of Spring; Flown Is The Bird, And Empty Is The Nest, His Broods Are Rear'D, No Joys Are Left To Sing. There Hangs A Dreariness About The Scene, A Present Shadow Of A Bright Has Been. Ah, Sad To Prove That Pleasure'S Golden Springs, Like Common Fountains, Should So Quickly Dry, And Be So Near Allied To Vulgar Things!-- The Joys Of This World Are But Born To Die.