Has childhood come back with its pleasant plays?
Mid gigantic trees and delicious flow'rs
We are passing our happy nights and days.
But the little cloud—O the little cloud—
So little at first it might almost please—
That covers us up like a dead man's shroud,
Growing bigger and bigger by degrees.
Alas! is it only in some bright past
That love can be perfect and bliss secure?
O days of delight that flew by too fast,