Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/308



Then live some little while, poor sickening light, And glad my aching eyes; Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright Has seen thy exequies. Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one, Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart, Doth shape his leave. I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone. Pity it is that in this mood we part.