She loved,—wise maidens do not so;
So fare all idle fools who chase
The subtle, coy sprite, Happiness!”
Dropped its silver balls from sight
The starry clepsydra of night;
And the morn brought jocund glee
To the world, and not to me,
“Would I ne’er had seen thy face,
Happiness, lost Happiness!”
Stung with swarms of wretchedness,