He implores, and a tear is beginning to trickle.
She is weak: they embrace, and . . . the lovers pass by.
While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lighted
A pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn;
His existence is withered; its future is blighted;
His hopes are betrayed, and his breast is forlorn.
By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived; now
In the virtue of midges no more he believes;
From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, now
He will bury his desolate life in the leaves.