Favonius from the setting sun, 
Sigh, sigh not so upon her tresses ! 
What though thou diest in the dun, 
She trembled at thy mute caresses. 

The rose shall lose her diadem, 
The nightingale shall weep his singing, 
And Love shall hear his requiem 
From bells that Sorrow sets a-ringing. 

Delight is alway in the earth, 
From soul to soul a meteor flying. 
And as some spirit gives it birth 
Some other spirit feels it dying.