.
O the sorrows we ourselves do make,
Burnished in a flowery eye,
Airy thoughts compounding in flight,
Such as faulty newborn words,
Misremembered in a song.

O how in youth we do in this conspire,
With hairs and vows to bend sparkle,
The first meetings of misty lovers,
Pursed by vacant lots under moon,
With white hearts beating down.

In early spring there are jewels in the eyes
And skins of gold that cover the soul,
Fabrics of light and treasures of gem,
Every day bold promise renewed
And the sun rejoices in truth.

How simple wishes are purely squandered,    
By the very doings we make done,
As time breaks forever leaving,
Such sorrows we ourselves do take,
For keepsakes boxed in tin.