But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white–then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow‘s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
A test of what is real is
that it is hard and rough.
Joys are found in it,
What is pleasure
belongs to dreams.