Think Of It Not, Sweet One

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.