Hover to suck the sweet on quivering wings;
There, at the morning's sweet and balmy prime,
A clasping couple blame the swift-wing'd Time.
Each morn, each eve, they seek this lonely bower,
And deeply bless its fair and fragrant flower,
Which shadows o'er so much of wildest bliss—
The burning glance—the long and honied kiss—
The broken sigh—the murmured, tender word,
Whose thrilling tone the inmost heart hath stirred—
The matchless joy which makes us hold as nought,