For hopes that are colourless now and dead,
Down at our feet in the dust that we tread;
And we marvel that ever we lighted our way
With hues so painted and false as they:
For all the deceits we have seen depart,
For the scorn which fills and hardens the heart,
For the knowledge so harshly acquired at last,
The past—now what shall we give the past?
Oh, give it smiles.
The past—now what shall we give the past?
Forgetfulness.
Oh, for some blessedness veil to cast
O'er the thoughts which press
The heavy heart, wearied and worn,
With all it bears, and all it has borne.
We will think no more of the friends of our youth;
Folly that ever we trusted their truth!
Perish the hopes that never again
Can soothe or solace—delude or sustain.
Think no more of the love which is fled
Afar with the faithless, or deep with the dead.
All that has ever beguiled or betray'd,
Mute be its memory, deep be its shade.
For all the flowers it to earth has cast,
The past—Oh! what shall we give the past?
Forgetfulness.
