Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any—anywhere.
Do not lool so sad, sweet one,—
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,—it is gone—
O ’twas born to die!
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I’ll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
Yet—as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E’en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.
