Fragment: 'When a Lover Clasps His Fairest'

When a lover clasps his fairest, Then be our dread sport the rarest. Their caresses were like the chaff In the tempest, and be our laugh His despair--her epitaph!

When a mother clasps her child, Watch till dusty Death has piled His cold ashes on the clay; She has loved it many a day-- She remains,--it fades away.