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Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

— Edward FitzGerald

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More quotes by Edward FitzGerald

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!

Leave well — even 'pretty well' — alone: that is what I learn as I get old.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

The King in a carriage may ride,
And the Beggar may crawl at his side;
But in the general race,
They are traveling all the same pace.

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Attribution

Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Edward FitzGerald (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.