Are gone, what summer loiterer will regard,
Inquisitive, thy countenance, will peruse,
Pleased to detect the dimpling stir of life, 40
The breathing faculty with which thou yield’st
(Tho’ a mere goblet to the careless eye)
Boons inexhaustible? Who, hurrying on
With a step quickened by November’s cold,
Shall pause, the skill admiring that can work 45
Upon thy chance-defilements—withered twigs
That, lodged within thy crystal depths, seem bright,