When the undimmed mind of child plays

No thought to time do they oft pay; 

Or to the swift fugue of night

From bold sun’s ever revolving light.

Young joy’s form is one of that cotton pile,

Brought by bounding main’s breathy guile;

Bright skies bring young pleasure, 

Offering ample hour to seek elusive treasure.

Supple bloom! Stay your freshest cast;

Count not long before you ripen last.  

Watch, and commit, the sunken melody of taste and sin

Played long ago on old men’s furrowed skin.