When Youth, led on by love and folly, strays,
Kissing sweet eyes beyond the allotted hour
That he should turn to labour and forget
Beyond his window beauty breaks to flower,
O greybeard, pause before thy anger strikes
Those joyful moments from his happy face.
They make a glory of his sullen task
And turn his workshop to a godly place.
Thou couldst not scold if by thy window wide
A mating thrush his love-song softly sung,
And the green horn of Spring blew Summer airs
That once thou chorused well when thou wert young.
Then, greybeard, chase the frown from off thy brow,
Since Time, alas! will soon belabour him;
And think what would become of joyous Spring
Were hoary Winter to be always grim.