Think not of it, sweet one, so -
Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
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.
|The source document of this text is not known.|
Please see this document's talk page for details for verification. "Source" means a location at which other users can find a copy of this work. Ideally this will be a scanned copy of the original that can be uploaded to Wikimedia Commons and proofread. If not, it is preferably a URL; if one is not available, please explain on the talk page.