Classic Poem

Little Lily, darling Lily,
Lily with the golden hair!
Folks will think me very silly;
But I'll cry, and let them stare—
Cry, and let them think me silly,
Now I journey far from Lily.

She is but a tiny maiden,
Idly playing on the hearth;
I a man with bosom laden,
Laden with the cares of earth.
Yet all cares I can unladen,
Save, one for this little maiden.

She is like a hoarded treasure—
Joy of joys when in our eye;
Out of sight, a fearful pleasure,
Lest our wingèd riches fly
Riches is a sorrow'd pleasure,
Absent from my little treasure!

Why should Absence weep for Lily,
When in thought we are so near?
Ah! we only know the silly,
Partial meaning of a tear
Tears! O do not think them silly;
They are crystal'd thoughts of Lily