Bright was the star of even,
But it faded, it fell from heaven.
What is the love by poets sung?
A star, my child, in a heap of dung.

Like a mangy dog that dies,
Bestrewn with dust it lies.
The cock will crow, and the wallowing sow
Grunt where the fallen star lies now.

I would fall where the waiting flowers
Are sweet in my garden bowers;
Where oft I have longed, in the scented gloom,
For a virgin death, a fragrant tomb.