The star, after beaming so brightly,
From the sky fell, a vision unsightly,
What is the love by poets sung?
A star amid a heap of dung.
Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying,
Beneath all this filth it is lying;
Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow,
And wallows in the fearful slough.
In the garden O had I descended,
By fair flowerets lovingly tended,
Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom,
A virgin death, a fragrant tomb!