Gipsy Song

The growth of love's fruit is
Most meet to eat;
Yet a snare where the root is
Entangles the feet.
To passion no stop is
When true love hath sinned;
But the flower that love's crop is
Droops dead i' the wind.
Alas! who knows or cares, my love,
If our love live or die, —
If thou thy frailty, sweet, should prove,
Or my soul thine deny?
Yet merging sorrow in delight,
Love's dream disputes our devious night.
None know, sweet love, nor care a thought
For our heart's vague desire,
Nor if our longing come to nought,
Or burn in aimless fire;
Let them alone, we'll waste no sighs:
Cling closer, love, and close thine eyes!