And talk to stars, because so much alone
And so unlov'd. I know that, in the dell,
Flowers are betroth'd, and that a wedding-bell
Rings in the breeze on which a moth has flown.
IX.
I know such things, because to loving hearts
Nature is keen, and pleasures, long delay'd,
Quicken the pulse, and turn a truant shade
Into a sprite, equipp'd with all the darts
That once were Cupid's; and the day departs,