Now is the season of my youth,
⁠Not thus shall I always be,
Listen, dear Lord, thou too art young,
⁠Take thy pleasure with me.
My hair is straight as the falling rain,
⁠And fine as morning mist,
I am a rose awaiting thee
⁠That none have touched or kissed.

⁠Do as thou wilt with mine and me,
⁠Beloved, I only pray,
⁠Follow the promptings of thy youth.
⁠Let there be no delay!

A leaf that flutters upon the bough,
⁠A moment, and it is gone,—
A bubble amid the fountain spray,
⁠Ah, pause, and think thereon;
For such is youth and its passing bloom
⁠That wait for thee this hour,
If aught in thy heart incline to me
⁠Ah, stoop and pluck thy flower!