Some years Spring will arrive surprisingly 
like Cinderella at the Prince’s ball.
A maiden scintillating and carefree,
she captivates onlookers, charming all.

She is sweet Youth, a rose’s crimson bud,
dew-sprinkled on a stem that’s just turned green,
a wondrous sight amidst snow clumps and mud,
fresh-faced, rejuvenating, unforeseen.

But like that fabled belle she cannot stay.
Whence comes the midnight hour her season ends.
Why must Spring’s glory vanish, go away?
Is it forgotten as a man’s life wends?

No, Spring’s allure won’t fade though we grow old,
for memories of youth are stored like gold.