Over faded heath-flowers spun, or thorny furze,

The filmy gossamer is lightly spread;

Waving in every sighing air that stirs,

As fairy fingers had entwined the thread:

A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dew

Spangle the texture of the fairy loom,

As if soft sylphs, lamenting as they flew,

Had wept departed summer’s transient bloom:

But the wind rises, and the turf receives

The glittering web: — So, evanescent, fade

Bright views that youth with sanguine heart believes:

So vanish schemes of bliss, by fancy made;

Which, fragile as the fleeting dews of morn,

Leave but the withered heath, and barren thorn!