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.