The young man makes hay
And little heed does pay
To the odd grey
Hair.
With desire he does stare
At maidens fair
While the hay turns bad
And the lustful lad,
With expression sad
Sees that the grey
Has chased the brown away.

The man strays still
But the rill
Of joy is almost dry.
Try
As he might
To lose himself in sensual delight
Man does hear
With fear
Night’s footsteps, creeping near.