To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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Those that he loved so long and sees no more,
Loved and still loves,–not dead, but gone before,
He gathers round him.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.
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.