Ode 598

MY little moon, the morning Friday was,
Of the third month the sixth unhappy day,
When, with a breaking heart, I watched thee fade,
And thy cheek from my bosom fell away.

The year seven hundred was and sixty-four
Of the great Prophet's, and thy tender, flight;
Like hail the sudden stroke upon me fell,
And broke thy gentle blossom in my sight.

Since that dark day the sport of fate I am,
Of circumstance the idle drifting toy;
Regret is vain—nought else is there to do,
Since thou art dead, and with thee all my joy.*