The bright nut casts his torch flames, and the sprays
   Stream from the black thorn on the wind's old way,
 The doors clap to, the pane is blind with rains.
   Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.

 There's one spoilt spring to scant our short-lived lot,
   One time of year now wrecked from our small store.
 May will be fine next year as like as not:
   Oh ay, but then we shall be a score-and-four.

 We, I am quite sure, are not the first
   To sit on pub stools while the storms have hurled
 Their hoped-for plans to wrack and void, and cursed
   The brute, the black one who has made the world.

 It is in truth a thing most foul on high
   To cheat our short-term souls of aught they crave,
 And mar what mirth we have as you and I
   Fare on our long fool's trip to the grave.

 A thing most foul it is; but pass the can.
   My lad, no pair of kings our moms have born;
 Our sole part is what we get as heirs of man:
   We want the moon, but we shall get no more.

 If here this day the loud cloud lours,
   The next day it will rain on far-off rests;
 The flesh will grieve on bones that are not ours
   Soon, and the soul will mourn in those men's breasts.

 The old woes of our proud and rage-filled dust
   Are from the Time past time, and shall not fail.
 Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
   Hold up the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

                                -- A.E. House Man