For often is vividly mirrored
Therein all her beauty and grace.
Though the rose from my cheek will soon vanish,
And the sheen from my tresses must fade,—
Though others will see on my forehead
The footprints that long years have made;
Yet youth is now with me, and never
Will I lose it—no! never grow old,
For the naiad that dwells in my fountain,
To me, a high secret has told.