Poems (Rowe)/To ——— (The bright dream's fled; it could not last)

by Louise Jopling Rowe

For works with similar titles, see To —.

TO ———

THE bright dream's fled; it could not last,
 It was too wildly passionate.
We lov'd too well, though now 'tis past,
 I cannot bring my soul to hate.

I spend my days in thinking o'er
 The happy hours of thrilling bliss
I've passed with thee. Ah! Nevermore
 This cheek will burn beneath thy kiss.

You lov'd me once. Forget it not
 Whene'er thy spirit thinks on mine.
My frailties, in pity, blot,
 From out the pale of Memory's shrine.

With the brief dream my passion died.
 But from its ashes there arose
A calmer love, which will abide
 Until I in the dust repose.

And when I pray, I murmur still
 Thy name with those I love so well.
Oh! doomed to part by Fate's stern will,
 I find it hard to say "Farewell."

And when my Sun of Life is set,
 And I am nothing but a name,
I cannot tell thee to forget,
 One soft sad tear I wish to claim.