Youth Smiles Without Any Reason. It Is

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.

Ah, Happy Hills! Ah, Pleasing Shade! Ah, Fields Beloved In Vain! Where Once My Careless Childhood Stray'd, A Stranger Yet To Pain! I Feel The Gales That From Ye Blow A Momentary Bliss Bestow.

The Time Will Come, When Thou Shalt Lift Thine Eyes To Watch A Long-drawn Battle In The Skies. While Aged Peasants, Too Amazed For Words, Stare At The Flying Fleets Of Wondrous Birds.