Now Time the harvester surveys His sorry crops of yesterdays; Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets, And for another harvest whets His ancient scythe, eying the while The budding year with cynic smile. Well, let him smile; in snug retreat I fill my pipe with honeyed sweet, Whose incense wafted from the bowl Shall make warm sunshine in my soul, And conjure mid the fragrant haze Fair memories of other days. Bend you now before the shrine Of the good Saint Valentine. Show to him your broken heart-- Pray the Saint to take your part. Should he intercede in vain And the maid your heart disdain, Call upon Saint Nicotine; He will surely intervene. Bring burnt off'ring to his feet, Incense of Havana,…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.