WHEN we lament the light of other days In some dark hour of passionate despair, The temple, that of ruined joys we rear, Is such as never met our living gaze. The hand of mem'ry tenderly that strays Amid the dead leaves where the blossoms were -- As some lone mother sees the little chair, And her dead darling crowns with heavenly rays -- The scattered petals lovingly doth range, But all the stinging thorn-pricks doth forget, And paints a picture all of flowers and green. So when we ponder on some mournful change, 'Tis not what was our secret thoughts regret, But what we fancy haply might have been. |