Edwin Arlington Robinson — Three Quatrains

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