My early
love
My early love! I'll think on thee,
When evening seeks its crimson throne.
Sweet hours which gentle memory
Delights to consecrate her own;
Ah! then thy cherished image clings
To all I meet, or hear, or see,
And twilight's breeze, like music, brings
Thy voice of gladness back to me.
Friendship's young bloom may pass away,
As dreams depart the sleeper's mind;
The hopes of life's maturer day,
May fade and leave no trace behind;
But early love can never die,
That fairest bud of spring's bright years,
Twill still look green in memory,
When time all other feeling sears.
