Oft I remember those whom I have known
        In other days, to whom my heart was led
        As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
        But absent, and their memories overgrown
    With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
        As graves with grasses are, and at their head
        The stone with moss and lichens so o'erspread,
        Nothing is legible but the name alone.
    And is it so with them?    After long years,
        Do they remember me in the same way,
        And is the memory pleasant as to me?
    I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
        Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
        And yet the root perennial may be.


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