The past

Wilt thou forget the happy hours

Which we buried in love's sweet bowers,

Heaping over their corpses cold

Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?

Blossoms which were the joys that fell,

And leaves, the hopes, the hopes that yet remain.

Forget the dead, forget the past? Oh, yet

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,

Memories that make the heart a tomb,

Regrets glide through the spirit's gloom

And with ghastly whispers tell,

That joy, once lost, is pain.