Swift the golden moments flitted
Of my childhood's blissful days—
Soon the smiling joys retreated,
Which o'er boyhood flung their rays.
Spring, whose footstep never lingers,
Flowers upon the vernal field,
All the forest's plumy singers,
All the lights that nature gild—
Will not winter's breath destroy them?
Other springs shall re-enjoy them;
Youth rekindles not its beam—
Why do I so idly dream?