Wilt thou forget the happy hours,
Which be buried in love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold,
Blossoms and leaves instead of mould?
Blossoms which where the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
Forget the dead, the past? O 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, one lost, is pain.
Writer(s): Richard Lederer
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