html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Farewell, my own beloved! the crimson tide
Is gushing forth, bearing my life, my breath,
Ere thou hast claimed me for thine own—thy bride,
I have been won by the destroyer—Death!
I die for thee, beloved! O, joyful thought
That smooths my pathway to an early grave;
I, who have loved thee so, have proudly bought
The gift of life for thee—I die to save.
Thou weepest, my beloved! will gladness fade
Out of the laughing skies and brilliant flowers,
When I—thy joyous Helen—low am laid
Within the stillnes of secluded bowers?
Thy sorrow moves me, sweet, I grieve for thee,
For I have felt in hours of pensive thought
How dim and dark earth-land would be to me
If thou—my life—my star of hope—were not.
But time will kindly mellow thy despair,
And years will soothe thy poignant grief to sleep,
And thou may'st e'en another win and wear,
But none like me so true—with love so deep.
Again farewell! O, clasp me close my love,
An icy chill is creeping o'er my heart;
My spirit soon will wing its flight above,
Kiss me once more, my own, ere I depart.
November 8, 1869.