Why Ask Me the Cause of My Sorrow

Why ask me the cause of my sorrow,
To thee I its source need not tell;
Thou know'st at the dawn of to-morrow,
I bid to this valley farewell.

Yet I never can utter adieu,
To speak it would torture my heart;
For though I the moment shall rue,
I fear thou art glad I depart.

Yet sure—thou wilt miss the devotion,
With which I adore at thy shrine;
The blushes, the sighs, the emotion,
Which tell thee how much I am thine—

The looks which long dwell on each charm,
Still following wherever thou art;
And the zeal to protect thee from harm!
Then wherefore be glad to depart?

Should he be repaid with deriding,
Who only in life can now see
The dwelling, where thou art abiding,
The door that admits him to thee?

But wilt thou no pity bestow?
Yes—tears in those speaking eyes start!
Thou own'st thou art sorry I go;
Then now I can bear to depart.