I would I were a cigarette Between my Lady's lithe sad lips, Where Death like Love, divinely set. With exquisite sighs and sips, Feeds and is fed. * * * * For life is Love and Love is death, It was my hap, a well-a-day! To burn my little hour away.
'T were vain to tell thee all I feel, or say for thee I'd die. Ah, well-a-day, the sweetest melody, could never, never say, one half my love for thee.j. augustine wade
Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day! This round world's but a bitter pill." We too are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.