Calcutta nr. 223
Alas ! that the book of youth is closed
And this fresh spring flower is of yesterday
That bird of joy whose name is youth
Alas ! I know not whence it came nor where it goes
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Alas ! that the book of youth is folded up?
And that this fresh purple spring is winter-stricken;
That bird of joy, whose name is Youth,
Alas 1 I know not when it came nor when it went.
Hélas! le décret de notre adolescence touche à son terme! Le frais printemps de nos plaisirs s'est écoulé! Cet oiseau de la gaietéve qui s'appelle la jeunesse, hélas! je ne sais ni quand il est venu, ni quand il s'est envolé!
Alas, for Youth's book is rolled up and cast by!
This fresh Spring of joyance hath flitted fast by!
Yon bird of delight, Adolescence y-clept,
How came it I know not, nor how it past by.
Closed is the volume of my youthful day,
And this fresh Spring-time gladness gone for aye;
Yon bird of joy named Youth, ah! I knew not
When here you came nor when you flew away!