Dreams, that elude the Waker’s frenzied grasp—

Hands, stark and still, on a dead Mother’s breast,

Which nevermore shall render clasp for clasp,

Or deftly soothe a weeping Child to rest—

In suchlike forms me listeth to portray

My Tale, here ended. Thou delicious Fay—

The guardian of a Sprite that lives to tease thee—

Loving in earnest, chiding but in play

The merry mocking Bruno! Who, that sees thee,

Can fail to love thee, Darling, even as I?—

My sweetest Sylvie, we must say ‘Good-bye!’