All that's bright must fade,—

  The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

  But to be lost when sweetest.

Stars that shine and fall;—

  The flower that drops in springing;—

These, alas! are types of all

  To which our hearts are clinging.

All that's bright must fade,—

  The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

  But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize

  Delights that end in aching?

Who would trust to ties

  That every hour are breaking?

Better far to be

  In utter darkness lying,

Than to be blest with light and see

  That light for ever flying.

All that's bright must fade,—

  The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

  But to be lost when sweetest!