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Think not of it, sweet one, so

Think not of it, sweet one, so;
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayest, but 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 hill:
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.

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