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.