Do not grieve

I would not have you mourn too much,
When I am lying low,—
Your grief would grieve me even then,
Should your tears flow.

But only plant above my grave
One little sprig of rue;
Then find yourself a fairer love,
But not more true.

The summer winds will come and go
Above me as I lie;
And if I think at all, my dear,
As they pass by,

I shall remember the old love,
With all its bliss and bane,—
Though Life nor Death can bring me back
The old, sweet pain.