Our bliss was as the spring, a fleeting phase,
and brief’s the beauty of young lovers’ craze.
I dreamed a butterfly in golden days,
when buttercups lay in the fields ablaze.
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.