IN AFTER TIME No, my own love of other years! Much rests with you that yet endears, Could those bright years o'er me revolve The pearl of life we would dissolve And each the cup might share. I, that the myrtle and the bay Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear That they were only vestiges of smiles, Which had been lying there all night per haps Upon a skin so soft, "No, no," you said, "Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are here : Well, and what matters it, while thou art too!" DEATH UNDREADED DEATH stands above me, whispering low MEMORY THE Mother of the Muses, we are taught, Is Memory she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. Alas! alas! is all I can reply. Memory has left with me that name alone, Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or uncall'd. Forgotten are the names of visitors |