Reading Wordsworth in the small hours

I read a song which bade the hour
To embalm itself in simple bliss,
A bliss which like sun and cloud and flower
Inflames the senses, falling upon one as a kiss-

A kiss which effected joy sweet but swift
For soon its imprint began to fade
Away, like petals caught in a mad wind's drift;
The moments returned to their dullen shade.

And though that song I read again
In weary search to find that bliss anew,
I found it not; instead with a separate pain
Accepted it had elsewhere flew.