CXIV

Of all the dreams I dreamed in bygone years,
But one remains, imprinted on my age,
And even that record, that emblazoned page
Is dimmed with dust and stained with scorching tears.
If my rash youth that scorned foreboding fears
Had half divined the thoughts which make me sage,
Now that the latest action holds the stage,
And the sad mimes approach their last careers;
Would I have found the courage to begin
This chronicle of love, or wasted breath,
Tinting pure pages with bewildering sin?
Ah, no! I would have stamped Love's myrtle wreath
Beneath my feet; rent every leaf herein,
And closed the volume as a book of death.