E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’

E ROS ! wherefore do I see thee, with the glass in either hand?
Fickle God! with double measure wouldst thou count the shifting sand?
‘ This one flows for parted lovers—slowly drops each tiny bead—
That is for the days of dalliance, and it melts with golden speed.’