 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock
|  |
|
IN REMEMBRANCE OF FORTY-FOUR YEARS AGO
The convolvulus twines round the stems of its bower,
And spreads its young blossoms to morning's first ray:
But the noon has scarce past, when it folds up its flower,
Which opens no more to the splendour of day.
So twine round the heart, in the light of life's morning,
Love's coils of green promise and bright purple bloom:
The noontide goes by, and the colours, adorning
Its unfulfilled dreamings, are wrapt up in gloom.
But press the fresh flower, while its charms are yet glowing,
Its colour and form through long years will remain:
And treasured in memory, thus love is still showing
The outlines of hope, which else blossomed in vain.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock
| |
|
