since these are left me still,
Of  e'en take thy fill:
Yes, steal the lustre from my eye,
And bid the soft Carnation fly;
My tresses sprinkle with thy snow,
Which boasted once the ;
Warp the slim form that was ador'd
By him, so lov'd, my  LORD —
But leave me, when all these you steal,
The mind to  the nerve to