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To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.
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Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, But leave---oh! leave the light of Hope behind.
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The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.
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On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
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