Vale
Warbleth the bird of Love his golden song,
And many hearken to his magic strain;
In joyous major now he carols strong,
In minors low he croons his soft refrain.
So fair his lay of Love’s fond empery,
One scarce may mark the quaver of his sigh;
Or note amid his seeming ecstasy
The dream that fades, the hopes that shatter’d lie.
But most he sings for Youth’s enraptured ear,
When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeoning,—
“Time flies,” he trills, “clasp close the fleeting year
Ere winter cometh, and sweet Love take wing!”