Shalt thou be beauty's dream, her sweetest thought?
No; thought scarce is ere it is not.

And dare I make thee love's low melody?
Nay; silence, then no more of thee.

Shalt thou be morning, wonder of the light?
No; day, then shadow of the night.

And art thou summer's red, unrivalled rose?
Not that; love sighs, “How soon it goes!”