Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade: Where'er you tread, the blushing flow'rs shall rise, And all…

Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

Ye Gods! annihilate but space and time, And make two lovers happy.