Memory

SO shuts the marigold her leaves
   At the departure of the sun;
So from the honeysuckle sheaves
   The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath
   Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath
   As night they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be
   Some that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory:
   But could they teach Forgetfulness,
I'd learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.

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