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IF thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,

Then sleep, dear, sleep;

And not a sorrow

Hang any tear on your eyelashes;
Lie still and deep,

Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o' the sun to-morrow

In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart

Of love and all its smart,

Then die, dear, die;

'Tis deeper, sweeter,

Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming

With folded eye;

And alone amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her

In eastern sky.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

108

A LAMENT.

A LAMENT.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone:

As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow Summer comes again,
The owlet Night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan Youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou:

My heart each day desires the morrow:
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,

Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear, for me.

P. B. Shelley.

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