O say not—"Love will never
⁠Breathe in that breast again;"
That "where he bled, must ever
⁠All pleasureless remain."
Shall tempest-riven blossom,
⁠When fair leaves fall away,
In coldness close its bosom
⁠'Gainst beams of milder day
⁠O never!—nay
⁠It blooms—whene'er it may.

Though ruthless tempest tear—
⁠Though biting frosts subdue—
And leave no tendril where
⁠Love's pretty flowrets grew;
The soil, all ravag'd so,
⁠Will nurture more and more,
And stately roses blow
⁠Where gowans droop'd before.
⁠Then why—O! why
⁠Should sweet love ever die?