Bright laughs the sun; the birds, that are to air
Like song to life, are gaily on the wing;
In every mead the handmaid hours prepare
The delicates of spring;[E]
But, if she love me not!
To me at this fair season still hath been
In every wild-flower an exhaustless treasure,
And, when the young-eyed violet first was seen,
Methought to breathe was pleasure;—
But, if she love me not!
How, in thy twilight, Doubt, at each unknown
Dim shape, the superstitious Love will start;
How Hope itself will tremble at its own
Light shadow on the heart!—
Ah, if she love me not!
Well; I will know the worst, and leave the wind
To drift or drown the venture on the wave;
Life has two friends in grief itself most kind—
Remembrance and the Grave—
Mine, if she love me not!