IN AFTER TIME

No, my own love of other years!
No, it must never be.

Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?

Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,

The pearl of life we would dissolve

And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befalls;

I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.

Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass
That made the men as faithless.
But when you

Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear

That they were only vestiges of smiles,
Or the impression of some amorous hair
Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate
band,

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
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

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
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad counte-