A Lament

Joy of waves that topple o'er

Breaking, lost upon the shore;

All the swift delights of spring

Caught but only on the wing;

Withered leaves we treasure up

From the rose's shattered cup;

Blushes on a virgin's cheek

Gone ere praise of them may speak;

Moments on love's height supreme

Known—but only in a dream;

Words from love's own heart that fail

Faint as spices on the gale;

All things exquisite and dear

Are to death or heart-break near;

All things joyous, tender, blest,

Live transformed or taste of rest.

Give, oh, give me but the wings

Of my joys and happy springs!

What avails this hapless I

That must suffer and not die?