Chapter CXXI

That which we have we value not to-day,
Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.
If fortune flieth and be ours no more,
Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,
If by infirmity we cease to play
Those truant games that childhood doth adore,
Then are we all anxiety therefore;
Since many long for youth when they grow gray.
So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,
And all unconscious cast my love aside,
Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regain
When I no longer on this earth reside,
Remembered by my love, that shall remain;
But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.