YES, Youth, thou’rt fled, and I am left,
  Like yonder desolated bower,
By Winter's ruthless hand bereft
  Of every leaf and every flower.

With heaving heart and streaming eyes,
  I wooed thee to prolong thy stay,
But vain were all my tears and sighs—
  Thou only fled’st more fast away.

Yet though thou fled’st away so fast,
  I can recall thee if I will;
For I can talk of what is past,
  And while I talk, enjoy thee still.