When Love Was A Child, And Went Idling Round, 'Mong Flowers The Whole Summer'S Day, One Morn In The Valley A Bower He Found, So Sweet, It Allured Him To Stay. O'Erhead, From The Trees, Hung A Garland Fair, A Fountain Ran Darkly Beneath;-- 'Twas Pleasure Had Hung Up The Flowerets There; Love Knew It, And Jumped At The Wreath. But Love Didn't Know--And, At His Weak Years, What Urchin Was Likely To Know?-- That Sorrow Had Made Of Her Own Salt Tears The Fountain That Murmured Below. He Caught At The Wreath--But With Too Much Haste, As Boys When Impatient Will Do-- It Fell In Those Waters Of Briny Taste, And The Flowers Were All Wet Through. This Garland He Now Wears Night And Day; And, Tho' It All Sunny Appears With Pleasure'S Own Light, Each Leaf, They Say, Still Tastes Of The Fountain Of Tears.