Poems (Chitwood)/Forget Me
"FORGET ME."
E'en as a bird forgets the song it weaves, When spring's first breezes, soft, begin to blow;As that sweet cadence dies amid the leaves Slowly to silence—Oh, forget me so. As the dew passes, when the morn is bright, From the low desert-flower's transparent urnAs a gold cloud floats slowly from the sight, So let my love depart, and ne'er return.
Yes, yes, forget me; cease to weave for me The sparkling thread in the deep woof of thought;Let all the past an idle fancy be,— A dream, whose speedy wak'ning brought thee nought;Or, if at times thy heart-strings wildly thrill Delicious breathings,—waking thee to tears,—Oh, think of me as one whose heart is still, Beneath the clay of long-departed years.