A Vain Wish

I would not, could I, make thy life as mine;
Only I would, if such a thing might be,
Thou shouldst not, love, forget me utterly;
Yea, when the sultry stars of summer shine
On dreaming woods, where nightingales repine,
I would that at such times should come to thee
Some thought, not quite unmixed with pain, of me,
Some little sorrow for a soul's decline.

Yea, too, I would that through thy brightest times.
Like the sweet burden of remembered rhymes,
That gentle sadness should be with thee, dear;
And when the gates of sleep are on thee shut,
I would not even then, it should be mute.
But murmur, shell-like, at thy spirit's ear.