09.03.2008, 17:09
To Louise Claude
I would not take my leave of thee, dear child,
With customary words of compliment:
Nor will I task my fancy to invent
A fond conceit, or sentence finely filed;
Nor shall my heart with passionate speech and wild,
Bewail thy parting in a drear lament.
Wit is not meet for one so innocent,
Nor passionate woe for one so gaily mild.
I will not bid thee think of me, nor yet
Would I in thy young memory perish quite.
I am a waning star, and nigh to set;
Thou art a morning beam of waxing light;
But sure the morning star can ne'er regret
That once 'twas grey-hair'd evening's favourite.
I would not take my leave of thee, dear child,
With customary words of compliment:
Nor will I task my fancy to invent
A fond conceit, or sentence finely filed;
Nor shall my heart with passionate speech and wild,
Bewail thy parting in a drear lament.
Wit is not meet for one so innocent,
Nor passionate woe for one so gaily mild.
I will not bid thee think of me, nor yet
Would I in thy young memory perish quite.
I am a waning star, and nigh to set;
Thou art a morning beam of waxing light;
But sure the morning star can ne'er regret
That once 'twas grey-hair'd evening's favourite.