That form so graceful, and that hand so fair,
Where now those treasures?—mouldering into clay!
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn,
Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn,
Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight?
Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears!
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres,
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!
SONNET 108.
“Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.”