To whom the warmth of one delightful day,
And fragrance of the flowers, are all life:
When the time came she would be as a hawk
To rend the singing-bird she so despised.
Thou shouldst have fled alone to Gondovald,
And Merow, then, have followed thee by stealth;
But now the way is lost: thy passions ride
Full-armoured through restraint, though careful hands
And cunning might have lifted up the nets.
Thy flight with Merow fans into a flame