Little you think, my lovely friend,
While o’er these easy lines you bend
That they can give you many days,
You little think, to whom belong
The purer streams of sacred song,
He from the tomb the prey of Death can raise:
He can, and will; for this is due
From him above the rest to you,
Tho’ with the rest he snares your smile:
Ah! most he wants it, as you know..
One, only one, would soothe his woe..
Beguile not him.. and all but him beguile!