In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,
And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time
We can love as in hours of less transport we may: —
Of our smiles, of our hopes, ’tis the gay sunny prime,
But affection is warmest when these fade away.
When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,
Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,
First tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn;
Then, then is the moment affection can sway
With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;
Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they,
But the Love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true!
In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes,
Yet faint is the odour the flowers shed about;
‘Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping skies
That call the full spirit of fragrancy out.
So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth,
But ’tis only in grief true affection appears; —
And even though to smiles it may first owe its birth,
All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.
– Thomas Moore