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And then if thou shouldst woo another
To be thy bride,
Although my thoughts I cannot smother,
I will not chide.
To be thy bride,
Although my thoughts I cannot smother,
I will not chide.
But should'st thou hear that grief is paling
My young cheek's bloom,
That Death my slender form is veiling
For the dark tomb—
My young cheek's bloom,
That Death my slender form is veiling
For the dark tomb—
Then let thy lip be softly sighing
Like a low lute,
Breathing its music o'er the dying
For sweet lips mute.
Like a low lute,
Breathing its music o'er the dying
For sweet lips mute.
And when these hands thou 'st clasped so often
Are cold and chill,
And this warm heart no tone can soften
To love's sweet thrill—
Are cold and chill,
And this warm heart no tone can soften
To love's sweet thrill—
Then, though light airy forms assemble
Where thine will be,
I know thy heart will softly tremble
Still true to me.
Where thine will be,
I know thy heart will softly tremble
Still true to me.