Youth

Beloved spring of my days,

you flower full of grace!

I carry your roses so long,

it causes me no displeasure;

you fill my lively breast

with fire, life and blood,

you feed with innocent desire

my always happy mind.

What grief is called, what vain cares,

what honour-seeking whims, meanness and envy,

remain as hidden from me,

as the content of others:

I live in unimpaired rest,

and do not think about artificial problems.

How full of grace you flower,

beloved spring of my days!