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 Once in a garden this advice I heard.

It was the Nightingale, the Rose's bird,—

He left the Rose, to hurry in my ear:

"It is our only chance, you take my word."

Sweet cup of life no power shall fill again,

Thy juice goes singing through each gladdened vein—

Drink, drink, my love, two mouths upon the brim,

Ah! drink, drink, drink, each little drop and drain.

For, have you thought how short a time is ours?

Only a little longer than the flowers,

Here in the meadow just a summer's day,

Only to-day; to-morrow—other flowers.

The stream of life runs ah! so swiftly by,

A gleaming race 'twixt bank and bank—we fly,

Faces alight and little trailing songs,

Then plunge into the gulf, and so good-bye.