THERE is a flower I wish to wear,

Another man would hope no more;Nor hope I what I hoped before:But let not this last wish be vain;Deceive, deceive me once again!

O, if you felt the pain I feel!But O, who ever felt as I?No longer could I doubt him true-All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.

While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,Than sit the fire out and go starv’d to bed?

To touch the hand, almost to press,That cheer’d thee in thy loneliness.What could thy careful guardian findOf thee in form, of me in mind,What is there in us rich or rare,To make us claim a moment’s care?Unworthy to be so carest,We are but withering leaves at best.

Or Charon, seeing, may forgetThat he is old and she a shade.

I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;It sinks, and I am ready to depart.