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At twenty years, a poet lone,
I, when the rosy season came,
Walked in the woodland, to make moan
For some fair dame;

And when the breezes brought to me
The lilac spent in fragrant stream,
I wove her infidelity
In love's young dream.

A lover of illusions, I!
Soon other dreams quite filled my heart,
And other loves as suddenly
Took old love's part.

One Glory, a deceitful fay,
Who flies before a man can stir,
Surprised my poor heart many a day,—
I dreamed of her!

But now that I have grown so old,
At lying things I grasp no more.
My poor, deceived heart takes hold
Of other lore.

Another life before us glows,
Casts on all faithful souls its gleam:
Late, late, my heart its glory knows,—
Of it I dream!