I look upon that young boy's fresh formed face.
How could this belong to my memory?
To take back what it gives and thus efface,
Yes! This is it, this is time's treachery!
What now am I to do with what remains
Of the short span of my minisicule being?
To wave my fist in the air and thus curse—
No! This will not do, this is not living!
My youth may fly fast from my hands' clutches
But it is sweet to make room for the new!
To love all there is to love and thus bless
Every good thing that comes in front of you,