A Child in Years

I joy in flowers red and bright,
Which May will yield us soon in store.
They stood but now in woful plight,
For winter brought them sorrow sore.
But now with many a joyous day
Maytide will give us recompense,
And therefore all the world is gay.

What help from summer do I get
And from the days so long and light?
My hopes of comfort all are set
On one who grieves me day and night.
That lady now would prove her worth,
If she would make me glad of heart;
Then should I come to real mirth.

When to my love I bid good-bye,
No joy in life is left me, none!
Alas, for grief I am like to die,
That such a suit was e'er begun!
A strange thing Love to me appears;
Lady, for this I suffer sorely,
That I am but a child in years!