I loved—and you. I played—who hath not been
Steeped in such play? If I was mad, I ween
’Twas for a god and for no earthly queen.
Hence with it all! Then dark my youthful head,
Where now scant locks of whitening hair instead,
Reminders of a grave old age, are shed.
I gathered roses while the roses blew,
Playtime is past, my play is ended too.
Awake, my heart! and worthier aims pursue.
W. M. Hardinge (Nineteenth Century, Nov. 1878).