Your own fair youth, you care so little for it-- Smiling toward Heaven, you would not stay the advances Of time and change upon your hapiest fancies. I keep your golden hour, and will restore it. If ever, in time to come, you would explore it-- Your old self, whose thoughts went like last year's pansies, Look unto me; no mirror keeps its glances; In my unfailing praises now I store it. To guard all joys of yours from Time's estranging, I shall then be a treasury where your gay, Happy, and pensive past unaltered is. I shall then be a garden charmed from changing, In which your June has never passed away. Walk there awhile among my memories.