John Keats

* * *

Think not of it, sweet one, so; –
         Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
         Any, any where.

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.