Elegies
The perfume is the same, the same the hue
As that which erst my senses did delight:—
But he who planted the fair avenue
Is here no more, alas! to please my sight!
XXXVIII
Elegies
One thing, alas! more fleeting have I seen
Than wither'd leaves driv'n by the autumn gust:—
Yea, evanescent as the whirling dust
Is man's brief passage o'er this mortal scene!
Chisato.
XXXIX
Softly the dews upon my forehead light:—
From off the oars, perchance, as feather'd spray,
They drop, while some fair skiff bends on her way
Across the Heav'nly Stream[157] on starlit night.
Anon.