The gliding fish that takes his play In shady nook of streamlet cool, Thinks not how waters pass away, And summer dries the pool. The bird beneath his leafy dome, Who trills his carol, loud and clear, Thinks not how soon his verdant home The lightning's breath may sear. Shall I within my bridegroom's bower, With braids of budding roses twined, Look forward to a coming hour When he may prove unkind? The bee reigns in his waxen cell, The chieftain in his stately hold, To-morrow's earthquake,—who can tell? May both in ruin fold. |