On

Think not of it, sweet one, so; --

Give it not a tear;

Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go

Any -- anywhere.

Do not look 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.