What Is There In Thee, Moon! That

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

Land And Sea, Weakness And Decline Are Great Separators, But Death Is The Great Divorcer For Ever.

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.

Their Woes Gone By, And Both To Heaven Upflown, To Bow For Gratitude Before Jove's Throne.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.