John Keats (Äæîí Êèòñ)

* * *

Think not of it, sweet one, so;
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayest, but 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;
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny hill:
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.

Yet, as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
Let us too!–but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.

1. On Seeing the Elgin Marbles
2. Lines Written on 29 May, the Anniversary of Charles’s Restoration, on Hearing the Bells Ringing
3. To Ailsa Rock
4. Isabella, or, The Pot of Basil
5. Addressed to the Same

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