My youth was my old age,
⁠ Weary and long;
It had too many cares
⁠ To think of song;
My moulting days all came
⁠ When I was young.

Now, in life's prime, my soul
⁠ Comes out in flower;
Late, as with Robin, comes
⁠ My singing power;
I was not born to joy
⁠ Till this late hour.