Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes—
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,
Swan-like, and as her feathers light
When on the still wave spread;
And let it wear the graceful dress
Of unadornèd simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;