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.

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