To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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That very law which moulds a tear
And bids it trickle from its source,–
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.
Go! you may call it madness, folly;
You shall not chase my gloom away!
There ‘s such a charm in melancholy
I would not if I could be gay.
Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
She was good as she was fair,
None–none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are:
To know her was to love her.