Here comes the winding of my tale at last,
That witching youth has led so far about;—
As the world's frowns, and nature's smiles have pass'd
O'er me, the voice of passion would break out—
Transport or scorn; for who longs not to cast
Forth into shape each thought, sensation, doubt?
Eye them a moment; then, like sibyl leaves,
Scatter to the idle winds, what idler fancy weaves?