Across the mountains steep and th’ oceans deep,
I fear I couldn’t trace my sole love still.
The season cruel and th’ envious time, who creep
upon all, might do you e’en slightest ill.
As much as I can’t bear to see your charm
decay, I dread more of the loss of your
naïveté. When th’ age has done its harm,
away had flown vivacious days of yore.
Yet I’ve preserved your young looks in my dream:
my dormant realm shone by celestial blaze.
In darkest night you cast the purest gleam
tome, the lost soul in the sweven’s maze.
Where else can I obtain you in this earth
than dream: my garden of eternal mirth?
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