The roses of the gardens of Adonis
Are what I love, Lydia, those flitting roses
That in the day when they are born,
Within that day, die.
The light's for them eternal, because they
Are born with the sun born already, and sink
Before Apollo may yet leave
The visible course he has.
Like them, let us make of our lives one day, -
Voluntarily, Lydia, unknowing
That there is night before and after
The little that we last.
- Fernando Pessoa