When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain;
Before you forget, and while I remember,
I cry as I shall cry never again.
Went up a hylle
Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels
Of misty meadows, and streams that stray;
We raised us at eve from our rosy revels,
With faces aflame for the death of the day;
With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver,
Low lids that cling to the last of love: