STOP -- Not to me, at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of Time. Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting, So but thy image endure in its prime. But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature Wills that remembrance should always decay; If the lov'd form and the deep-cherish'd feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away-- Me let no half-effac'd memories cumber! Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee-- Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber-- Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me! Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me, Scanning my face and the changes wrought there,-- Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me, With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair? |