I Make My bed Of Roses

I make my bed of roses sweet!
I scorn the frowns of envious Fate!
I will my careless song repeat
While 'round may surge contending hate!
For life is what we make it still,
And I am master of my will.
Then let me quaff life's nectar wine
And live, a lord, the passing hour;
The world, and all therein, is mine,
Of fame or wealth or transient power;
For he, indeed, is all supreme
Whose dream of life is all a dream.