They say that Hope is happiness;
But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first--they set the last;
And all that Memory loves the most Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost Hath melted into Memory.
Alas it is delusion all:
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.
This poem was written in 1816 and published in 1829 according to
HE
ON
GY OF
SH
RE.
