I <br /> <br />As long as Fame's imperious music rings <br />Will poets mock it with crowned words august; <br />And haggard men will clamber to be kings <br />As long as Glory weighs itself in dust. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled, <br />Nor shudder for the revels that are done: <br />The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled, <br />The strings that Nero fingered are all gone. <br /> <br />III <br /> <br />We cannot crown ourselves with everything, <br />Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel: <br />No matter what we are, or what we sing, <br />Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-quatrains/
