On ⸻

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, For each will I invent a bliss For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes Than a sunny rill; And thy whispering melodies Are more tender still.

Yet—as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses; E’en let us too; but be our dirge A dirge of kisses.