When one forgets, the old things are as dead things;
The grey leaves fall, and eyes that saw their May
Turn from them now, and voices that have said things
Wherein Life joyed, alas! are still to-day—
When one forgets.

The world was noble, now its sordid casement
Glows but with garish folly, and the plains
Of rich achievement lie in mean abasement—
Ah, Hope is only midwife to our pains!

When one forgets, but maimed rites come after:
To mourn, be priest, be sexton, bear the pall,
Remembrance-robed, the while a distant laughter
Proclaims Love’s ghost—what wonder skies should fall,
When one forgets!