The Past

Waking or asleep, thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep than we mortals dream

We look before and after and pine for what's not

Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught

Will thou now forget the happy hours

Which we buried in love's, in love's sweet bowers

Heaping over their corpses so cold

Blossoms and leaves instead of the mold?

Forget the dead and the past? Oh yet,

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,

Memories that make the cold heart a tomb

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,