It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain—
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last too tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart—
Ah! this it is to die!
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
On evening's placid brow;
We have been long together, love—
We must part now.
Good night! I never can forget
This long bright summer day,
We pass'd among the woods and streams,
Far, far away!
Good night! we have had happy smiles,
Fond dreams, and wishes true,
And holier thoughts and communings,
And weeping too.
Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
Again so sweet a time,
Alone with Nature and with thee,
In my life's prime!
Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
Take thou this faded flower,
And lay it next thy heart, against
Our meeting hour.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
Thy homeward way to light;
Remember this long summer day—
Good night! good night!