As the flower bloweth,
As the stream floweth,
Daughter of beauty,
Do thou thy duty.
What, though the morrow
May dawn in sorrow?
Ev'n as light hasteth,
Darkness, too, wasteth:
Morn then discloses,
Raindrops on roses!
Daughter of beauty,
What, then, is duty?
Time says, “Death knoweth!”
Death says, “Time showeth!”