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.