That Sunday morning’s April glow,
    How should it not impart
A stir about the veins that flow
    To feed the youthful heart.

        Ah! years may come, and years may bring
            The truth that is not bliss,
        But will they bring another thing
            That can compare with this?

I read it in that arm she lays
    So soft on his; her mien,
Her step, her very gown betrays
    (What in her eyes were seen)
That not in vain the young buds round,
    The cawing birds above,
The air, the incense of the ground,
    Are whispering, breathing love.

        Ah I years may come, &c.

To inclination, young and blind,
    So perfect, as they lent,
By purest innocence confined
    Unconscious free consent.
Persuasive power of vernal change,
    On this, thine earliest day,
Canst thou have found in all thy range
    One fitter type than they?

        Ah! years may come, &c.

Th’ high-titled cares of adult strife,
    Which we our duties call,
Trades, arts, and politics of life,
    Say, have they after all,
One other object, end or use
    Than that, for girl and boy,
The punctual earth may still produce
    This golden flower of joy.

        Ah! years may come, &c.

O odours of new-budding rose,
    O lily’s chaste perfume,
O fragrance that didst first unclose
    The young Creation’s bloom!
Ye hang around me, while in sun
    Anon and now in shade,
I watched in pleasant Kensington
    The prentice and the maid.

        Ah! years may come, and years may bring
            The truth that is not bliss,
        But will they bring another thing
            That will compare with this?