My friend, the traces of times past I have forgot,
Of youth's rebellion and its fiery disenchantment.
Ask not that I should tell of all that now is not,
Of what was granted me in sorrow and contentment,
Of what I loved and what caused me to change.
'Tis true: I do not taste enjoyment's fullest range;
But thou, O innocent, wast born for joy's own blessing.
Dost give to it thy carefree trust, each moment's catch:
Thy soul's alive for friendship and for loving match,
For heartfelt and voluptuous kissing;
Thy soul is pure: it has not seen depression's way;
Thy childlike conscience is as clear as brightest heaven.
Why shouldst thou heed my tedious tale and what I say
of follies and of friendships riven?
My words, I fear, would trouble sore thy quiet mind;
Thou'dst weep, thy heart with sorrow would be broken;
Thy trusting soul would never more such rapture find,
In horror wouldst thou shun, perchance, my loving token,
Perhaps for ever shun... My dear, that must not be,
I fear to lose this last and best exhilaration.
Ask not to hear from me each fearful revelation:
Today I love, today rejoice in all I see.