Have turn’d to fruit, oh where shall be
The sight that sees ye, loves you, now,
And blesses ye with fervent vow!
Though all the while ’tis growing dim,
And blooms your beauty—not for him!
XVII.
This eye hath but an hour to serve,
And its fine work is broke forever;
The worm shall gnaw its tender nerve,
And blessed light illume it never.