Who feels a growing hunger for fair eyes
And pretty hair, I warn him to refrain,
I, who have learned too well what grief and pain
Are the reward of futile enterprise.
Scarcely escaped whence chasms steeply rise,
Of perils without end what signs remain?
Of years of weeping in my eyes the stain
And in my breast anxiety and sighs.

Young hearts, shun cliffs precipitous as these!
With treach'rous flame their border-lilies shine,
For Ah! they lure us into mournful seas.
Only to these is life precious and fine
Who share its merriment, frankly, at ease,
And unto them God calls: The world is thine.