Classic Poem

Yes, " redolent of joy and youth,
I feel the gales, " disarming Truth
Of her inflicted pain;
'Tis April's dew that still I shed,
The tear no sooner born than fled,
And Spring is mine again.

With grace the Montem-pole I wield,
And spurn the ditch that guards the field;
My bat adorns my hand:
Or, tir'd of sport, I give my heart,
Where no deceits their smile impart,
And Love is Fairy-land.

If Time 's a local stamp of age ,
I 'll pin him to his early page;
He knows what Fancy means.
Last week I thought my hair was grey;
That life had reach'd the Winter's day: —
But I am in my teens .