Sonnet LXIII

O'ER faded heath-flowers spun, or thorny furze,The filmy Gossamer is lightly spread;Waving in every sighing air that stirs,As Fairy fingers had entwined the thread:A thousand trembling orbs of lucid dewSpangle the texture of the fairy loom,As if soft Sylphs, lamenting as they flew,Had wept departed Summer's transient bloom:But the wind rises, and the turf receivesThe glittering web:—So, evanescent, fadeBright views that Youth with sanguine heart believes:So vanish schemes of bliss, by Fancy made;Which, fragile as the fleeting dreams of morn,Leave but the wither'd heath, and barren thorn!