72
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the rose,
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
73
Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Remould it nearer to the heart's desire?