How oft had the vernal breezes of yore
Carest my light green dress, O young bard,
When versing with thee? In ecstasies did I pour
My soul: ne’er would my brain perplex or retard.
Dost thou remember the Western Lake seen through
Mist and rain, with yon hills, green-clad eremites,
Where the weeping willows gracefully grew?
Dost thou remember in Maytide the delights
Of Luoyang, when gilt voluptuously the sunbeam
Those globèd peonies, heaped around our pavilion
In a riot of purple and pink and cream?
How fugacious, methinks, is the joy of man; 
 Yet how can I—since Eternity hath turned grey—  
 Lift this goblet to invite Youth for her sway?