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.