Illusions Perdues

I thought that I would dwell with loveAnd love with me, till, ah! one dayI found that he could faithless prove—He spread his wings and flew away.

I thought that I would sing for fame;I stretched my hands to grasp the wreath,Which in my eager clutch becameSere leaflets, withered by a breath.

I thought that I would gather wealth,To clothe and educate the poor,To reach unto the stricken, health—'Twas dust that strewed my garner-floor.

I think that when I die, my soulWill melt into another landOf all things perfected—the goalOf what we cannot understand.And yet, perchance, I may but goSix feet, no further, merged in clay,To be the food of flowers—and soMy last illusion will decay.