Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.
Oh! He gives to us his joy,
That our griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone 35
He doth sit by us and moan.
William Blake.
CCXL
A DEAD ROSE.
O Rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,