The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.
In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars.

But we never get back our youth.

The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish.

Our limbs fail, our senses rot.

We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.