When I grave, take with you words to steal: Love was ne'er meant for one full belly, For love must fill more and fill many; Heart speak swells when feast neglect plenty, Whence love came unto me absent meal.
Yet unto you- absent still of sup, Station'd as a dove atop of birch; Swinging loose from bough to bough I search, For my yet ripe pear on this here perch, Where your milky face stolen my cup.
Do not plea teary-eyed my sweet love, 'Tis only my feathers that may shed, For I have had my end of heart's fed; So love for us both when I am dead, Swing on your own now, as I above.