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57

TO --- ---.

Oh! blame me not, although I seem
To banish thought in mirth's light dream,
My heart is sad at core:
The little space from sorrow free
Is quickly filled, and gaity
Runs wildly trickling o'er.
Yet, trust me, 'twill not long be so—
All floating in that balmy flow
So soft and warm it beats;
A word—a look—with deeper pain
Piercing it through and through again,
But faint resistance meets.
I know I should be firm and chill,
I know that joy becomes me ill,
Yet, if 'tis meet thou shouldst reprove,
Oh! do it with a look of love.