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!

Collection: 
English
Langdon Elwyn Mitchell

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