I. <br />When a lover clasps his fairest, <br />Then be our dread sport the rarest. <br />Their caresses were like the chaff <br />In the tempest, and be our laugh <br />His despair—her epitaph! <br /> <br />II. <br />When a mother clasps her child, <br />Watch till dusty Death has piled <br />His cold ashes on the clay; <br />She has loved it many a day-- <br />She remains,—it fades away.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-a-lover-clasps-his-fairest/
