Page:New Monthly 1825.pdf/6



breathe not of love, Or breathe not to me, If constant for aye Must your love-motto be. Where are the things The fairest on eart; Is it not in their change That their beauty has birth? The neck of the peacock, The iris’s dyes, The light in the opal, The April-day skies:— Would they be lovely, As all of them are, But for the chance And the change that are there? Breathe no vow to me, I will give nonoe of mine; Love must light in an instant, As quickly decline. His blushes, his sighs, Are bewildering things; Then away with his fetters, And give me his wings.