If thou wouldst east thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then sleep, dear! Sleep !
And not a sorrow hang
any tear on thine eyelashes;
Lie still and deep
sad soul, Until the seawave washes
The rim of the sun tomorrow
In Eastern sky.
But wouldst thou cure thine heart
Then die, dear, die.
'Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
With tranced eye;
And then alone, Amid the beaming
Of Love's stars, thou'lt greet her
in Eastern sky.