No more—no more—Oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee.
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.