All sweet flowers
Wither ever,
Gathered fresh
Or gathered never;
But to live when love is gone!--
Grieve, grieve, lute, sadly on!

All I had--
'Twas all thou gav'st me;
That foregone,
Ah! what can save me?
If the exórcised spirit fly,
Nought is left to love me by.

Take thy stars,
My tears then leave me;
Thine my bliss,
As thine to grieve me;
Take....

For then, so insidious was the music, and not quite of this earth the
voice, my senses altogether forsook me, and I fell asleep.

Would that I could remember much else! But I confess it is the heart
remembers, not the poor, pestered brain that has so many thoughts and
but one troubled thinker. Indeed, were I now to be asked--Were the
fingers cold of these bright ladies? Were their eyes blue, or hazel,
or brown? or, haply, were Dianeme's that incomparable, dark, sparkling
grey? Wore Julia azure, and Electra white? And was that our poet wrote
our poet's only, or truly theirs, and so even more lovely?--I fear I