110 
THE CARNATION. 
Think’st thou that she, whose only light, 
In this dim world, from thee hath shone, 
Could hear the long, the cheerless night, 
That must be hers, when thou art gone ? 
That I can live, and let thee go, 
Who art my life itself ? no, no ; 
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
Out of its heart must perish too. 
Then turn to me, my own love, turn. 
Before, like thee, I fade and burn; 
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
The last pure life that lingers there. 
Moore’s “ L alia Rook it.” 
