The Women Tell Me Every Day That All My Bloom Has Pas Past Away. "Behold," The Pretty Wantons Cry, "Behold This Mirror With A Sigh; The Locks Upon Thy Brow Are Few, And Like The Rest, They're Withering Too!" Whether Decline Has Thinned My Hair, I'm Sure I Neither Know Nor Care; But This I Know, And This I Feel As Onward To The Tomb I Steal, That Still As Death Approaches Nearer, The Joys Of Life Are Sweeter, Dearer; And Had I But An Hour To Live, That Little Hour To Bliss I'd Give.