’Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there,
Love knew it and jump’d at the wreath.
But Love did not know—and at his weak years,
What urchin was likely to know?—
That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,
That fountain which murmur’d below.
He caught at the wreath, but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do;
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.