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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER THE STORM by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CINQUAIN: MOON-SHADOWS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY SHE HEARS THE STORM by THOMAS HARDY LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER by JOHN GODFREY SAXE FELDMESTEN OR MEASURING THE GRAVES by ALTER ABELSON |