  Ask me not with simple grace, Pearls of thought to string for thee; For upon thy smiling face, Perfect gems I see— In thine eyes of beauty trace Lights that fadeless be. Bid me not from Memory's land, Cull fair flowers of rich perfume; Love will shew with trembling hand, Where far fairer bloom— Clustering on thy cheek they stand, Blushing deep—for whom? Bid me not with Fancy's gale Wake the music of a sigh; From thy breath a sweeter tale, Silver-winged, floats by; Melodies that never fail, Heard when thou art nigh! Ask me not—yet, oh! for thee Dearer thoughts my bosom fill, Dimmed with tears I cannot see To do thy gracious will: Take, then, my prayer—In heaven may we Behold thee lovelier still! |
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