For they understood nothing of the tear, which all at once trickled from
the corner of his eye-lid, a bitter drop which overflowed from the too full
cup of his heart.

Ah! youth has but one time, and they do well, who when the sun gilds their
brow, cast their sap to its warm caresses. The winter, gloomy shadow, will
come but too soon to freeze their slowly opened buds, leaving only a trunk,
dry and bare.

Then, when nothing more than a few warm cinders remain at the bottom of the
human engine, we try to warm ourselves again at this cold hearth, and to
search among those dying sparks which we call memories.

And these memories of a time for ever fled, these lights which gladden or
stir again your old heart sad and cold, these are the simple and fruitful
beliefs, the transports of the soul, the insane devotions, the ardent
passions, and all those orgies of heart and sense, all those frenzies of
imagination, and all those follies of youth, which cause the wise to cry
out so loudly, and which are the only feast-days of life.

Hasten then, young man, hasten; take the good which comes to thee, and be
not decoyed by idle fancies; wait not till to-morrow to be glad. To-morrow
is the age of ripeness, of the falling fruit, the wrinkled brow, the faded
flower; it is the vanished locks; it is the blood which grows cold, the
smile which comes not back; it is in fine the worm of deceptions, which is
ever growing larger and gnawing what may be left of thy heart.