The poem
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.