Transcribed below.

True love is for the old. Youth has its day,
And while it lasts, it seems life’s finest hour;
But soon those fleeting blossoms fade away,
And leave a fruit that’s small and hard and sour.
Give love a century or two to grow,
And then those bitter unripe fruits may sweeten;
And in another hundred years or so
They’ll be mature, and then they can be eaten.