Strew roses on the way,
And think no more of grief,
Short is the passing day,
Short-lived the summer leaf;
Short is our mortal span
Then, ere the minutes die,
'Tis Wisdom's wisest plan
To gild them as they fly:
The present only is our own,
The future dark, and all unknown.

Then, O give Grief and Care,
O give them to the blast,
And make the present fair
And brighter than the past!
And make the glasses ring,
As ye quaff the cheering wine,
And a merry chorus sing,
Beneath the clustering vine.
Sorrow will sink, where Joy will swim;
Then fill the bicker to the brim.

When underneath the stone
We sleep the final sleep,
We'll hear no more the tone
Of music's wildest sweep;
Nor hear the wine-cups meet
With tinkling sound of glee,
Nor the merry chorus sweet
Under the linden-tree:
Then let us, in the hope of Heaven,
Enjoy on earth what God has given!