"To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may,    Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to day,    To morrow will be dying.The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,    The higher he's a getting;The sooner will his Race be run,    And neerer he's to Setting.That Age is best, which is the... Continue Reading →