When in the height of youthful prime,
And candour gently reigned,
Then feared you not the march of Time,
Possession you disdained.
How fulsome in existence chaste
Were you content to dwell;
And life's pursuits in restless haste
Cast not their ugly spell.
Content without the irksome hand
Of one who gathers flowers.
Content in peaceful shades to stand
Whilst claims were made in bowers.
Then came those hands, clear to discern
Above the heady throng.
How came you for those hands to yearn?
To whom do you belong?
Why sigh you now, with faded mien,
For hands which care you not?
Regretting thus to be unseen,
Regretting now your lot?
Regretting now the loss of time,
And peace in disarray?
The ravages of seasons' clime
Upon your features prey.
Resign you now alone to fade,
Your bloom o'ercast by care.
Resign again to unseen shade.
In vain do you despair.
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A note on the use of the word 'candour' here. Aside from its well understood definition of the quality of frankness, openness and honesty, I'm also using it in its older, lesser known sense: that of ingenuousness and innocence.