The dew is on my breath, and I've
  But walked a mile from the flow
Of Eastern shores. Why now unsheathe
  Your waning moon, a dark tableau
To waste my skies, when castled clouds,
  With rainbow moats, and crystal spires,
      Should thrill my eyes?

You strike too soon; the saddest day,
  The saddest hour (if hands may judge
Some hours Just for stripping flowers
  As they bloom). But in this, you lapse:
Although you curse me twice, you bless
  Me once. For who can count the steps
      Between your shores?