To love all ages yield surrender; But to the young its raptures bring A blessing bountiful and tender— As storms refresh the fields of spring. Neath passion’s rains they green and thicken, Renew themselves with joy, and quicken; And vibrant life in taking root Sends forth rich blooms and gives sweet fruit. But when the years have made us older, And barren age has shown its face, How sad is faded passion’s trace! … Thus storms in autumn, blowing colder, Turn meadows into marshy ground And strip the forest bare all round.
