A rose to smell a moment, then to leave, Chance strain of song you smile at as you pa**, Bubble that breaks before you lip the gla**, Chain frail as the frail thread that spiders weave; Oh, do not think that I myself deceive! Thus, and not otherwise, to you am I,-- A moment's pleasure as you pa** me by, Powerless, at best, to make you joy or grieve. And you, to me, my sun-god and my sun, Who warmed my heart to life with careless ray! Forever will that burning memory stay And warm me in the grave when life is done:-- What farther grace has any woman won? Since your chance gift you cannot take away.