And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)
And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.
XVII.
But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,
A thousand happy fancies that contrive
To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal
Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control
They wend their way, elate to be alive.
XVIII.