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