Pack away the foolish garments of youth.
Neatly fold your dreams with tissue paper
Between each fragile and faded layer,
Sprinkled with rosemary, and rue, and truth.
Stop chasing the hopes of your giddy youth.
The time is past to meet Her, to move Her,
To give violets, and take Her offer.
You are old, and dull, and there is the truth.
The days of wine and roses are not for you.
Turn away from the happy laughing crowd.
Walk home alone under grey sullen skies.
The nights of song and dance are not for you.
Turn your face to the wall, don’t dream out loud,
Become that sad litle man you despise.