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,
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;
Let us too; but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.

1817.