To Virgins, to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.
I don't suggest that I agree with the bald sentiment of this poem (which at first glance seems to be about getting married before you become an ugly old hag). But I am a Live-In-The-Moment kind of person, and I do agree with gathering life's rosebuds before they fade. Unless they're in someone else's yard, then you have to think twice. Will they know it was you? Do they have a mean dog? I walk past an abandoned house on my way to work every day, and it has the most beautiful orange rosebush growing wild and crazy by the front stoop. I think to myself every day, "this is the day that I'm going to discreetly take out my pocket knife and take a bloom home with me." But I haven't yet. Nobody lives there, nobody will miss one little rose. What am I afraid of?