Will you forget the happy hours,
Which we buried in love’s sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves instead of mould.
Flowers which were the joys slain
And the leaves, the hopes that yet remain,
Forgot the dead, the past? O yet,
Their ghosts will revenge for it.
Memories that make a heart tomb,
Regrets which slide through your spirit’s gloom,
And the whispers inside you tell,
That joy once lost, is pain. . .