Classic Poem

Where are now the flowers that once detained me,
Like a loiterer on my early way?
Where the fragrant wreaths that softly chained me,
When young life was like an infant's play?

Were they but the fancied dreams, that hover
Round the couch where tender hearts repose?
Only pictured veils, that brightly cover
With their skyey tints a world of woes?

They are gone, — but memory loves to cherish
All their sweetness in her deepest core.
Ah! the recollection cannot perish,
Though the eye may never meet them more.

There are hopes, that like enchantment brighten
Gayly in the van of coming years;
They are never met, — and yet they lighten,
When we walk in sorrow and in tears.

When the present only tells of anguish,
Then we know their worth, and only then:
O, the wasted heart will cease to languish,
When it thinks of joys that might have been!

Age and suffering and want may sever
Every link, that bound to life, in twain:
Hope — even hope may vanish, but for ever
Memory with her visions will remain.