You wore but an hour,
And knelt by the mound where together we’ve sat;
But thy-folly and pride
I now only deride—
So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!
That I loved, and how well,
It were madness to tell
To one who hath mock’d at my madd’ning despair.
Like the white wreath of snow
On the Alps’ rugged brow,