And youth has no chronicle left of its dreaming,
When hope, the sweet alchemist, ruled; and we took
The future on trust, and the present on seeming,
And each old deceit wore a bright and glad look.
Methinks it would make the dark actual less dreary,
Could we call back the feelings we formerly knew;
The path where we loiter for flowers is less weary
Than that which speeds on, the goal only in view.
The heart spends its treasure at once; we should cherish
The thought of our feelings, so live them again;
Too early the bright tints of phantasy perish
And too soon the gilding is worn from life's chain.
Vain, vain, this desire for the past! To remember
Is not to recall;—would to Heaven that it were!
The second green leaf that may shoot in November
Is but a pale mockery of what was so fair.
The hope that betrayed, and the love that deceived us,
Could we live did they keep their first early regrets?
Amid all of which Time in its course has bereaved us,
Well the heart may rejoice in how much it forgets!
L. E. L.
