noon
A young man 's ambition is but vanity , -- it has no definite aim , it plays with a thousand toys . As with one passion , so with the rest . In youth , Love is ever on the wing , but , like the birds in April , it hath not yet built its nest . With so long a career of summer and hope before it , the disappointment of to-day is succeeded by the novelty of to-morrow , and the sun that advances to the noon but dries up its fervent tears . But when we have arrived at that epoch of life , -- when , if the light fail us , if the last rose wither , we feel that the loss can not be retrieved , and that the frost and the darkness are at hand , Love becomes to us a treasure that we watch over and hoard with a miser 's care . Our youngest-born affection is our darling and our idol , the fondest pledge of the Past , the most cherished of our hopes for the Future . A certain melancholy that mingles with our joy at the possession only enhances its charm .