That dance in buttercups in summer days,
Though only Poets view
Their gambols in the flowers and in the rays
Of noonday, which the common sight gainsays,
To Fancy ever new!
The grasshopper is gone. Ah, me! can death
Have will to stop its modicum of breath?
Swift fly the clouds, why should they fly so swift?
Come they like Angel-spirits, with a gift
Of mercy to mankind?