Ode 10

Vain is her gaze, and hopeless are her sighs Fast from her mocked embrace each phantom flies O Catherine de Medicis! these throbs restrain Whose dark edges never catch the shine of Heaven All the drear waste for a peaceful adorning Brief as the sparkling dew that hangs on morning Searching for the green tints of Joy and Youth That Passion mistakes it for the form of Truth When on Dublin, and the rainy steep Shall borrow the drowsy charm of sleep For flames which in hers burn in truest heart Or those which waste not in the mediaeval art Late hidden as wonders past, like the trembling snow Melted and thrown, with what fate must know Sweet verses are loving to do as honey prove Then show her jealous' dislike, and end in Love