In the mind of Bunn so well,
Like love in Paphian bowers.
By the lines that he has made,
Working at the poet's trade—
By the "marble halls" so smart,
By "other lips" and "Woman's heart,"
True poetry at once restore, restore,
Or don't let Bunn, at least, write any more!
But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes;
Again she falls—again she dies, she dies.