On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life A richer harvest reap...
Now, o'er the tessellated pavement
Fresh saffron, steep'd in essence of the rose,
While down yon agate column gently flowsA glitt'ring streamlet of ambrosial dew
My Phaon smiles
The Angel that presided o'er my
Said, "Little creature, form'd of Joy and Mirth,"Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth
"
O'er thee,
Misfortune,
I have ceased to wail,
I'll utter no reproaches any more