Roses, ah.! how fair ye be!
Ye are fading, dying!
Ye should with my lady be,
On her bosom lying;
All your bloom is lost on me,
Here despairing, sighing.
SORROW WITHOUT CONSOLATION.
Oh, wherefore shouldst thou try
The tears of love to dry?
Nay, let them flow!
For didst thou only know,
How barren and how dead
Seems everything below,
To those who have not tears enough to shed,
Thou'dst rather bid them weep, and seek their comfort so.
THE PARTING.
Let mine eyes the farewell make thee
Which my lips refuse to speak;
Scorn me not, if to forsake thee
Makes my very manhood weak.
Joyless in our joy's eclipse, love,
Are love's tokens, else divine,
Cold the kisses of thy lips, love,
Damp the hand that's locked in mine.
Once thy lip, to touch it only,
To my soul has sent a thrill,
Sweeter than the violet lonely,
Plucked in March-time by the rill.
