Not what we ailed,—yet something we did ail;
And yet were well, and yet we were not well;
And what was our disease, we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look; and thus,
In that first garden of our simpleness,
We spent our childhood. But when years began
To reap the fruit of knowledge, ah, how then
Would she with graver looks, with sweet, stern brow,
Check my presumption, and my forwardness;
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show