Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?
Blossoms which were the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes, the hopes that yet remain.
Forget the dead, forget the past? Oh, yet 
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,
Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Revenge which glides o'er the spirit's gloom
And with ghastly whispers tell,
That joy, once lost, is pain.