To a Lady, XVI

I cast mine eye athwart the scene, And blest the soul-reviving green; And must I go away, and must This eye that doateth turn to dust? Ye pleasant flowers, I said, when ye Have turn’d to fruit, oh where shall be The sight that sees ye, loves you, now, And blesses ye with fervent vow! Though all the while ’tis growing dim, And blooms your beauty—not for him!