IF thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart,   Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow   Hang any tear on your eyelashes;     Lie still and deep,   Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow,     In eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart,   Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter,   Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming     With folded eye;   And there alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her     In eastern sky.