At twenty years, a poet lone,
I, when the rosy season came,
Walked in the woodland, to make moan
For some fair dame;
And when the breezes brought to me
The lilac spent in fragrant stream,
I wove her infidelity
In love's young dream.
A lover of illusions, I!
Soon other dreams quite filled my heart,
And other loves as suddenly
Took old love's part.
One Glory, a deceitful fay,
Who flies before a man can stir,
Surprised my poor heart many a day,--
I dreamed of her!
But now that I have grown so old,
At lying things I grasp no more.
My poor, deceived heart takes hold
Of other lore.
Another life before us glows,
Casts on all faithful souls its gleam:
Late, late, my heart its glory knows,--
Of it I dream!