Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,

At pleasures slipped away?

Some the stern Fates will never lend,

And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,

The dew upon the grass,

I see them, and I ask not why

They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not

To call them back; ’twere vain;

In this, or in some other spot,

I know they’ll shine again.