THOUGH hence I go—though with the fading day
I seem to fade away,—
Like to a primrose which beguiling Spring,
Too early fanning with perfumèd wing,
Tempts, only to betray:
Though soon I sleep,—yet sorrow not, nor fear
That you shall lose me, dear!
For not one cherished memory—
One single yearning of your heart for me,
Shall fail to bring me near!
How strange could death divide who, living, share
All happiness and care!
Still as you gaze, bereft of your desire,
On the dull embers of your lonely fire,
You shall behold me there,
And though through hiemal glooms you sometimes learn
To doubt, nor hope discern,—
Yet when the timid firstling buds awake,
And birds come back and sing, your heart to break,—
Always, I shall return!