The songs I wrote when I was young,
I did not think were good;
I sat me down to write some songs,
When life was understood.
But, everywhere, the bright and fair,
To my first numbers sprung, —
They did not want my songs of care,
But songs I made when young.

The love I made when I was young,
Was not love debonnaire;
I thought love would refine its tongue
When I could love prepare;
But, everywhere, the bright and fair,
I, stranger, seemed among;
They did not want my sober air,
But love I made, when young.

The travels made when I was young,
Were not in wisdom's way.
Again I travelled in those lands
In life's meridian day;
But, everywhere, the bright and fair,
My lonely heartstrings wrung;
My settled thoughts they did not share,
But thoughts I had, when young.

Song, Love, and Travel! ye are young,
And I am almost old.
The golden bell vibrates when rung,
The cracked old bell is tolled.
Ye young and fair! my time beware!
In morn's bright Arc be swung!
Wait not for evening time to pair,
Life's life is but life young.