SONG.
Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers,
Whose touch to mine is rapture’s spell;
Life’s joy for us a moment lingers,
And death seems in the word—farewell.
The hour that bids us part and go,
It sounds not yet,—oh! no, no, no!
Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness,
Flies like a courser nigh the goal;
To-morrow where shall be his fleetness,
When thou art parted from my soul?
Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow,
But not together,—no, no, no!