Why ever do you try to know
The future, which nothing is known?
As though prophecy, or the divine, can say
What will come of your fate and mine.
Stop this; don’t waste your time,
For still the frost will come
While the thunderstorms roll by
And we are drunk on summer wine.
Come, before the winter air blows
For your life hangs like a simple rose
Drooping down for the plucking
Take it before it goes.