Poems (Baldwyn)/The Dying Girl to her Lover

by Augusta Baldwyn

THE DYING GIRL TO HER LOVER.

Oh, will you weep when o'er my grave
The bending willows gentle wave,
      And I am low?
Or will you careless pass me by?
Will you not breathe one gentle sigh,
      One thought bestow?

If solitude should win your love,
When all is calm below, above;
      And ling'ring day
Paints the clear sky with roseate dyes,
The faint air breathes its latest sighs,
      If ere you stray,—

Will you not seek my silent tomb,
Remember how I lost my bloom
      In loving thee?
Yet do not mourn my sad, sad lot;
I only would not be forgot:—
      Oh, think of me!

But if the wish I now express
Shall e'en a moment cause distress,
      Oh, then forget!
For I will just as sweetly sleep,
Though o'er my grave you do not weep,
      Or e'er regret.

Ah, soon,—ah, soon it will be o'er,
And I will weep no more, no more,
      But calmly rest.
This trembling heart will break at last,
With, sad remembrance of the past,
      So long opprest.

Farewell, farewell! I go, I go;
We will not meet again below,
      My only love;
But when thy pilgrimage is past,
Shall we not, dearest, meet at last
      In heaven above?