Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late;
Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;
Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;
Leave me unmock'd, unpitied to my fate—
Peace! Let me go.
Think you that words can smooth my rugged track?
Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made,
Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid?
Winds shook not Earth from Atlas' bended back—
Peace! Let me go.
What though it be the last time we shall meet—
Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair,
And fill with music sweet the summer air;
Not this again shall draw me to your feet—
Peace! Let me go.
No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave
Round your triumphant beauty as you go,
Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe—
Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave!
Peace! Let me go.