Again I sing of thee, sweet youth:
  Thy hours are minutes, they can hear
No challenge from stern sentinels,
  To wake their fear;
You love the flowers, but feel no grief
Because their pretty lives are brief.

Nature sets no conspirators
  Of withered things to lie in wait
And show thee with their faded charms
  Thy coming state;
No dread example she sets thee
In dead things falling off a tree.

Thou seest no bones inside the earth,
  Thy sweat comes not of toil, but play;
On thy red blossom no pale worm
  Can work decay;
No toad can muddy thy clear spring -
Time is thy subject, thou his king!