The speaker looks back on all the time wasted wooing, mesmerised by the light in women’s eyes. He ignored every wise lesson, his only real study their faces, and all they taught was foolishness. He likens himself to a sprite that country girls meet in haunted glens — enchanted by a lovely smile, but fleeing the moment the spell breaks. When her gaze turned elsewhere, the wind couldn’t keep up with his hurt retreat.
Now, older and rueful, he wonders if his heart has grown too cold or wise for brilliant eyes. The answer is a dry, self-mocking no: breaking such sweet bonds is useless. A single glance still defeats poor wisdom every time. The mood is warm, bittersweet — half confession, half tender shrug — as he admits he’s never really learned his lesson and doesn’t much want to.