Poetry Archives

Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
      Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
      Any—anywhere.

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.