If all we love and all we dream
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Must on the wind be swept away,
And all that's brave and all that's fair
Be lost like music on the air,
Like blossoms on a running stream,
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And all our wealth be Yesterday—
Still would I love, still would I dream.
What though the kiss that once she gave
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Be hidden with her in the grave,
What though the life she once did bless
Withers with a great weariness,
What though not any hope have I
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Once more to see her when I die,
Her hallowed lips, one summer day,
Made the green world to fade away—
That glory burns about me yet,
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It cannot go—till I forget.
Not to forget! Life's art is there:
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To vanished faces keep our word,
Thus brighter grow they, year by year,
Nearer they come, and clearlier heard
The voices that we used to hear—
Eyes of the dead, how soft ye shine!—
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Nor can that beauty ever fade
Which passed into the magic shade
Where Memory dreams above her shrine.
Enough it is if we can hold
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Still in our hands our ancient gold—
Gold of great hours that could not last,
Yet last for ever—holden fast
By faith of heart that needs no more
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Or better than it had before,
And deems the Past the Present yet,
That cannot fade—till we forget.