O, recall not not the past, though this valley be fill'd
With all we remember, and all we regret;
The flowers of its summer have long been distill'd,
The essence has perish'd, ah! let us forget.
What avails it to mourn over hours that are gone,
O'er illusions by youth and by fantasy nurst?
Alas! of the few that are lingering, none
Wear the light or the hues that encircled the first.
Alas for the springtime! alas for our youth!
The grave has no slumber more cold than the heart,
When languid and darken'd it sinks into truth,
And sees the sweet colours of morning depart.
Life still has its falsehoods to lure and to leave,
But they cannot delude like the earlier light;
We know that the twilight encircles the eve,
And sunset is only the rainbow of night.