A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be,
That I should die for him who lovéd me.
I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,
For these brief days of mine are but a morn,
A handful of poor violets, wind-worn,
Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay
Were not the ill that to the perfect flower
Might be if cruel hand should disarray
Its starry splendour when in ripened hour
It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream.