Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me

  Of past joys, now turned to pain;

Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,

  But whose burning marks remain.

In each tone, some echo falleth

  On my ear of joys gone by;

Every note some dream recalleth

  Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,

  Once more let thy numbers thrill;

Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,

  I must woo its anguish still.

Since no time can e'er recover

  Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,—

Better to weep such pleasures over,

  Than smile o'er any left us yet.