O ask no song of one whose heart
Has not a hope of joy below,
To whom the future's dread obscure
Is heavy with impending woe.
The wedded thrus, beside its mate,
May sing of love, of hope, how dear,
Nor sadden one delirious thrill
With the remembrance of a tear.
But grief is busy at my heart;
Life's Eden joys, how soon they wane!
Sing on, dear bird, and leave to me
The secret tear, the silent pain.
