Vita, Vita!
The flight of the years pursues me.
And nothing is done!
Nor gained, nor made, nor accomplished—
Only Youth—lost.
Slave to the pleasure that fetters, (nor would be free,)
Tired of the light before the disk of the sun
Is more than half of a circle!
Stunned at the cost
Of full free living, and nothing wherewith to pay
The long close score that blights with its fearful truth—
But my Youth.