And Gentian paints the sphere to suit her mind
Capricious as the sex of womankind.
Now steeped in bliss she leads the love-sick swain
And gives the kiss for which he sighed in vain.
The maid who but that morn his glances fled
Caresses lovingly his restless head.
The hapless poet who is lost to fame
Hears in his sleep his own illustrious name,
And, laurel crowned, looks back with scornful eye
Into a past of mean obscurity.