XXVII.
Yet who plucks me?--no one mourns, I have lived my season out, And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without. Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight.
Yet who plucks me?--no one mourns, I have lived my season out, And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without. Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight.