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 that yet remain.
Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yet There are ghosts that may take revenge for it, Memories that make the heart a tomb, Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, And with ghastly whispers tell That joy, once lost, is pain.