O thou glad phantom of my waking hours,
I will not clasp thee, lest the vision fail;
I only, sometimes, wander o’er the flowers
Whose perfume lingers in my summer’s vale:
Whether joy’s victorious, when I oft recount
The former kisses of indulgent Time;
Or the sad Present fathoms sorrow’s fount,
And bids my eyes assist my bosom’s chime;
I yet will fashion pleasure from each mood,
Shaming the Present with the Past’s record,
And gather strength, from memory’s darling brood,
To temper, and to wield the eventful sword:
Thy aid delightful seems, for thy dear sake,
And I shall seem to give, even what I take.