Of the gardens of Adonis, Lydia, I love

Most of all those fugitive roses

That on the day they are born,

That very day, must also die.

Eternal, for them, the light of day:

They're born when the sun is already high

And die before Apollo's course

Across the visible sky is run.

We too, of our lives, must make one day:

We never know, my Lydia, nor want

To know of nights before or after

The little while that we may last.

2.

To be great, be whole: nothing that's you

Should you exaggerate or exclude.

In each thing, be all. Give all you are

In the least you ever do.

The whole moon, because it rides so high,

Is reflected in each pool.