Are you forgotten? Yes, I think you are,
Forgotten with most other lovely things,
Since but a stifled echo, faint and far,
Is all distracted recollection brings.
For busy nothings have obsessed my days,
Crowding the private places of my mind,
And every eager, starving sense decays
In seeking vainly where it may not find.
But when the tedious, empty clamour dies,
And sleep, your pity-laden messenger,
Stoops with her lips upon my closing eyes,
And Night’s dark players make their
Entrance, where
The shadowy stage of dreams is dimly set,
Then I remember - how should I forget?