When you’ll be old, and all your passions gone:
Will you, perchance, cogitate on ‘us, ‘ which never was?
Would your memory sustain the substance of our own,
Which moulded such imprint; as then it was?
You may think, that Life will grant me greater memories,
And that those youthful delights of heart may cease:
With hand upon my heart, —I swear! —
That breeze of ardent love shall never cease!
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