SOUNDER, sweeter, be your sleep
For the few fond tears you weep!
But, by all your brief young love
Pure as any born above,
I adjure you! let not me
Waste away your memory!
Half-remember, half-forget,
What my heart will treasure yet,
Broken words not idly thrown
In that vase: may I alone
Suffer, if there aught remain
To be suffered yet of pain.
Spring is past; ’twas mutual then,
Share it now with other men.
I would say too “Make one blest,”
But that speech within my breast
(False for once) must be supprest.