Bright the crimson roses blow,
Blooming all our fields athwart;
Grapes in trellised clusters grow,
Soon they in our baskets show,
By our hands so featly brought.
Seeing that each passing year,
Flinging to the winter gray
That so faded mantle sear,
Comes revived and crowned dear
with it leafage green and gay.
Seeing thus how all that grows
Freely to our hands doth shape,
For all doth she dispose,
Strip we gladly then the rose,
Gaily trample on the grape.
And because Time urges on,
Yea to effort constantly;
Yesterday we youth did con,
Age to-night is us upon,
Death tomorrow is to be.
Strange is then the mystery;
Each man in his turn appears,
Solitary passes he,
On the earth one day to be;
But throughout this day this cheers:
Bright the crimson roses blow,
Blooming all our fields athwart;
Grapes in trellised clusters grow,
Soon they in our baskets show,
By our hands so featly brought.
