551. No, My Own Love

NO, my own love of other years!

No, it must never be.

Much rests with you that yet endears,

Alas! but what with me?

Could those bright years o’er me revolve

So gay, o’er you so fair,

The pearl of life we would dissolve,

And each the cup might share.

You show that truth can ne’er decay,

Whatever fate befalls;

I, that the myrtle and the bay

Shoot fresh on ruined walls.