How sadly is your love misplaced,
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! 10
Ye, too,[157] wild Flowers! that no one heeds,
And ye—full often spurned as weeds—
In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness
From fractured arch and mouldering wall—
Do but more touchingly recal 15
Man’s headstrong violence and Time’s fleetness,
Making[158] the precincts ye adorn
Appear to sight still more forlorn.