Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
⁠Which once refresh'd our mind,
Shall come—as, on those sighing woods,
⁠The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind—view not the woods;
⁠Look out o'er vale and hill:
In spring, the sky encircled them—
⁠The sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe—come winter's cold—
⁠Come change—and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
⁠Can ne'er be desolate.