Another memory finds me ready: In cherished dreams I sometimes stand And hold the lucky stirrup steady, Then feel her foot within my hand! Once more imagination surges, Once more that touch ignites and urges The blood within this withered heart: Once more the love … once more the dart! But stop … Enough! My babbling lyre Has overpraised these haughty things: They’re hardly worth the songs one sings Or all the passions they inspire; Their charming words and glances sweet Are quite as faithless as their feet.
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