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When the flame of love is kindled first,
’Tis the fire-fly’s light at even,
’Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.
A breath can bid it burn no more,
Or if, at times, its beams
Come on the memory, they pass o’er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,
And smiled in scorn upon the dew
That fell in its first warm hour,
’Tis the flame that curls round the martyr’s head,
Whose task is to destroy;
’Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,
Whose light but darkens joy.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,
The infant buds of Love,
And tread his glowing fire to earth,
Ere ’tis dark in clouds above;
Cherish no more a cypress-tree
To shade thy future years,
Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quenched only with thy tears.