On Snow-Flakes melting on His Lady's Breast

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 Celia’s eyes   A common fate beholders proved— Each swain, each fair one, weeps and dies,—   With envy these, and those with love!