Joy of waves that topple o'er
Breaking, lost upon the shore;
All the swift delights of spring
Caught but only on the wing;
Withered leaves we treasure up
From the rose's shattered cup;
Blushes on a virgin's cheek
Gone ere praise of them may speak;
Moments on love's height supreme
Known—but only in a dream;
Words from love's own heart that fail
Faint as spices on the gale;
All things exquisite and dear
Are to death or heart-break near;
All things joyous, tender, blest,
Live transformed or taste of rest.
Give, oh, give me but the wings
Of my joys and happy springs!
What avails this hapless I
That must suffer and not die?