 | Days and Hours |  |
III
Then blamed she the swift Sun, whose eager touch
Had stolen all their beauty's early treasure—
The Wind, that had been wanton overmuch,
And drawn their life forth with excess of pleasure;
Her tears could not awake their bloom again,
In vain against her mournful heart they lay;
Her tenderest tears could wash away no stain,
Her beating heart but shed their leaves away:
Had stolen all their beauty's early treasure—
The Wind, that had been wanton overmuch,
And drawn their life forth with excess of pleasure;
Her tears could not awake their bloom again,
In vain against her mournful heart they lay;
Her tenderest tears could wash away no stain,
Her beating heart but shed their leaves away:
316
She mourn'd ‘the Sun is setting,
It is the end of Day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease regretting,
We must away, away!’
It is the end of Day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease regretting,
We must away, away!’
| Days and Hours | |