Ah, Happy Air That, Rough Or Soft, May Kiss That Face And Stay; And Happy Beams That From Above May Choose To Her Their Way; And Happy Flowers That Now And Then Touch Lips More Sweet Than They! But It Were Not So Blest To Be Or Light Or Air Or Rose; Those Dainty Fingers Tear And Toss The Bloom That In Them Glows; And Come Or Go, Both Wind And Ray She Heeds Not, If She Knows. But If I Come Thy Choice Should Be Either To Love Or Not For If I Might I Would Not Kiss And Then Be All Forgot; And It Were Best Thy Love To Lose If Love Self-Scorn Begot.