From the Pen of Lord Byron

They say that Hope is happiness;

   But genuine Love must prize the past,

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless;

   They rose the first—they set the last.

And all that Memory loves the most

    Was once our only Hope to be,

And all that Hope adored and lost

    Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all:

   The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

   Nor dare we think on what we are.

                                               1815