Poems (Chitwood)/Forget Me
"FORGET ME."
E'en as a bird forgets the song it weaves,
When spring's first breezes, soft, begin to blow;
As that sweet cadence dies amid the leaves
Slowly to silence—Oh, forget me so.
As the dew passes, when the morn is bright,
From the low desert-flower's transparent urn
As a gold cloud floats slowly from the sight,
So let my love depart, and ne'er return.
When spring's first breezes, soft, begin to blow;
As that sweet cadence dies amid the leaves
Slowly to silence—Oh, forget me so.
As the dew passes, when the morn is bright,
From the low desert-flower's transparent urn
As a gold cloud floats slowly from the sight,
So let my love depart, and ne'er return.
Yes, yes, forget me; cease to weave for me
The sparkling thread in the deep woof of thought;
Let all the past an idle fancy be,—
A dream, whose speedy wak'ning brought thee nought;
Or, if at times thy heart-strings wildly thrill
Delicious breathings,—waking thee to tears,—
Oh, think of me as one whose heart is still,
Beneath the clay of long-departed years.
The sparkling thread in the deep woof of thought;
Let all the past an idle fancy be,—
A dream, whose speedy wak'ning brought thee nought;
Or, if at times thy heart-strings wildly thrill
Delicious breathings,—waking thee to tears,—
Oh, think of me as one whose heart is still,
Beneath the clay of long-departed years.