Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!
But evil is wrought by want of Thought,As well as want of Heart!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashioned so slenderly,Young and so fair!
One more unfortunateWeary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death.
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!
The tears of the young who go their way, last a day;But the grief is long of the old who stay.
My tears are buried in my heart, like cave-locked fountains sleeping.
E'en like the passage of an angel's tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
I so lively acted with my tearsThat my poor mistress, moved therewithal,Wept bitterly.
See, see what showers arise,Blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
Ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Then fresh tearsStood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dewUpon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
There is a tear for all who die,A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
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