A fair girl tripping out to meet her love, Trimmed in her best, fresh as a clover bud.

An old crone leaning at an ember’d fire, Short-breath’d in sighs and moaning to herself—

And all the interval of stealing years To make that this, and one by one detach Some excellent condition; till Despair Faint at the vision, sadly, fiercely blinds Her burning eyes on her forgetful hands.