Lean down, and kiss me, O my love, my own;
The day is near when thy fond heart will miss me;
And o’er my low green bed, with bitter moan,
Thou wilt lean down, but cannot clasp or kiss me.

How strange it is, that I, so loving thee,
And knowing we must part, perchance to-morrow,
Do comfort find, thinking how great will be
Thy lonely desolation, and thy sorrow.

And stranger—sadder, O mine own other part,
That I should grudge thee some surcease of weeping;
Why do I not rejoice, that in thy heart,
Sweet love will bloom again when I am sleeping?

Nay, make no promise. I would place no bar
Upon thy future, even wouldst thou let me.
Thou hast, thou dost, well love me, like a man:
And, like a man, in time thou wilt forget me.

Why should I care, so near the Infinite—
Why should I care, that thou wilt cease to miss me?
O God! these earthly ties are knit so tight—
Quick, quick, lean lower, O my love, and kiss me!