“A fair girl tripping out to meet her love,Trimmed in her best, fresh as a clover bud.An old crone leaning at an ember’d fire,Short-breath’d in sighs and moaning to herself—And all the interval of stealing yearsTo make that this, and one by one detachSome excellent condition; till DespairFaint at the vision, sadly, fiercely blindsHer burning eyes on her forgetful hands.”