Joshua Robertson

Why ever do you try to know

The future, which nothing is known?

As though prophecy, or the divine, can say

What will come of your fate and mine.

Stop this; don’t waste your time,

For still the frost will come

While the thunderstorms roll by

And we are drunk on summer wine.

Come, before the winter air blows

For your life hangs like a simple rose

Drooping down for the plucking

Take it before it goes.

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