My dreaming spirit flies to thee,
Like arrow drawn from Phœbus’ quiver.
About thy hearth-stone, dim and cold,
Forsaken Lares droop and moan;
They miss the faces, that of old
Within their joyous precincts shone.
Full soon the halls of Dis shall hide
Both thee and me and all we love,
For, bubbles on a rushing tide,
Our evanescent beings move.