Songs
Fear
there is a sound I would not hear,
Although it music’s self might be;
Lest in my breast a crystal sphere
Might burst, might break for melody.
There is a face I would not see
Tho’ like the springtime it were fair;
Lest love that was a barren tree
Should burst in bloom—should blossoms bear.
SWEETS THAT DIE
HOW fades that native breath
The rose exhales,
Whenas her bloom is o’er!
Altho’ her petals on the evening gales
Are wafted by, a fleet of fairy sails,
She is, alas! no more.
And love dies like the rose,
And fills the air
With many a deep drawn sigh:
Shall I not both embalm with sacred care,
That they may have, in sweetly-breathëd air,
Their immortality!