To the Memory of Love

Sweetest illusion that our fancy greeteth
Ah woud thou wert as fancy pictures thee
Brightest idea that this dark world meeteth
& sweetest shadow of Eternity
Woud thou live on as thou wert born to be
The care beguiler of lifes weary hour
Woud fancy with reality agree
Nor meet each other wi such withering power
Twere sweetness then unmingld wi the sour
Tho morning sunbeams meet with clouds that lour
Tho brightest noons of[t] darkest nights succeed
Yet will the morning find her freshning power
But when thou bidst our clouded memorys bleed
Thy withered raptures neer return to flower.
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