Ye children of the youthful Sun,
Ye flowers of the varied field,
In bliss your early days were run,
And Nature's kiss your childhood sealed;
Clad in embroidery of light,
And by fair Flora's hands bedight,
Godlike, with every radiant hue.
And yet, my children, ye must sigh,
For Flora did a soul deny,
And darkness must your life imbrue.

Lark and nightingale may sing
In your ears with living plea,
Twinkling, amorous sylphs may cling
Wantonly about your knee.
Aphrodite's self may trace
Calyx crowns your heads to grace,
As on love they cushioned lie.
Yet, my children, ye must weep:—
Love with all its feelings deep
She has chosen to deny.

But, though my mother's stern command
Forbids my darling to behold,
Yet, when in my ecstatic hand
Thy dainty love-pledge I enfold,
Then life and speech and soul and heart,
From contact into being start,
Tokens of calm and soothing grief.
Then all that highest Heaven sends
Within your gentle petals blends,
And brings divine relief.