are to be;
Of the past and of the present, of the darksome days and
pleasant,
And the future years, still hidden, that are kept in store
for me.

But, the past--should I deplore it? All my longing can't
restore it;
Still it lies beyond my reaching, to come back to me no
more;
It is right to keep and cherish, or to let its memory perish,
Like a dream to be forgotten, when the hours of sleep are
o'er?

Like a dream to be forgotten, like a phantom, a delusion
That but lured away our moments with its subtle, witching
powers,
Till it sinks our souls in sadness with the dreams of
gladness,
And the thoughts of vanished pleasures that can ne'er again
be ours.

Let me cease this idle longing for the days that have
departed,
It is worse than useless wishing for a light grown dim and
dead:
For joy so lovely seeming, when we clasp them in our
dreaming,
And know we must awaken and remember all is fled.