_ Sweet little words, made for silence not talk, young heart for love, not heartache, dark hair for catching the wind, not to veil the sight of a cold world. Kiss, while your lips are still red, while he's still silent rest, while bosom is still untouched, unveiled. Hold another hand, while the hand's still without a tool, drown into eyes while they're still blind, love while the night still hides the withering dawn. First day of love never comes back, a passionate hour's never a wasted one. The violin, the poet's hand, every thawing heart plays your theme with care.