To kiss my Celia’s fairer breast,
  The snow forsakes its native skies,
But proving an unwelcome guest,
  It grieves, dissolves in tears, and dies.

Its touch, like mine, but serves to wake
  Through all her frame a death-like chill,—
Its tears, like those I shed, to make
  That icy bosom colder still.

I blame her not; from...