On lips unconscious of the bliss,
And, full of gladness unexpress’d,
Close clasps him to her swelling breast,
Where springs a fountain rich and free—
The food of helpless infancy!
These are not lasting. I can say,
How joys like these may pass away;
And leave, where all was love and light,
An aching heart—a gloomy night—
A memory of pleasures gone—