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THE ADIEU.
It was not in the winter, our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—we plucked them as we passed.
T. Hood.
I.
A fair good-night to thee, love, a fair good-night to thee;
And pleasant be thy path, love, though it end not with me.
Liking light as ours, was never meant to last—
It was a moment's phantasy, and as such it hath past.
II.
We met in lighted halls, and our spirits took their tone;
Like other dreams of midnight, with colder morning flown;—
And thinkest thou to ever win a single tear from me?
Lightly won and lightly lost, love, I shed no tear for thee!
III.
Thy words were courtly flattery, such sink like morning dew;
But oh! love takes another tone, the tender and the true.
