My days of Spring, I don't regret your flight,
Mere lover's dreams elapsed in fruitless fashion,
I don't regret you, sweet nocturnal rites
Toasted to strains of reed pipe's plaintive passion;

I don't regret you, friends' inconstancy,
Goblets, or vestal chaplets for the brow,
I don't regret you, beauty's perfidy
Pensive, I'm stranger to amusements now.

But where are you, moments of sweet emotion
And hopes of youth, and heart's tranquillity,
Where is my former fire of inspiration?
Oh, days of Spring, return again to me!