Methinks that I could better brook
To have but memory's trace,
And I may cheat myself awhile
With many a treasured gaze and smile.
Yes, leave me—'tis less pain to brood
Over the past in solitude.
Oh, vanity of speech! no word
Can make thee mine again;
The eloquent would be unheard,
The tender would be vain.
Since gentle cares and spotless truth—
The deep devotion of my youth—
Since these are written on the air,
Wilt thou be moved by vow or prayer?
Yet how entire has been my love!
The flower that to the sun
Raises its golden eyes above,
Droops when the day is done:
But I for hours have watch'd a spot—
Although it longer held thee not;
It gave a magic to the scene
To think that there thy steps had been.
But I must now forget the past—
Say, rather, 'tis my all;
Henceforth a veil o'er life is cast—
I live but to recall.
