I. <br />Wilt thou forget the happy hours <br />Which we buried in Love’s sweet bowers, <br />Heaping over their corpses cold <br />Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould? <br />Blossoms which were the joys that fell, <br />And leaves, the hopes that yet remain. <br /> <br />II. <br />Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yet <br />There are ghosts that may take revenge for it, <br />Memories that make the heart a tomb, <br />Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom, <br />And with ghastly whispers tell <br />That joy, once lost, is pain.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-past-57/
