No thoroughly occupied man was ever yet very miserable.

Were it not better to forget
Than to remember and regret?

Love is a pearl of purest hue,
But stormy waves are round it;
And dearly may a woman rue,
The hour that she found it.

How disappointment tracks the steps of hope.

Ah tell me not that memory
Sheds gladness o'er the past;
What is recalled by faded flowers
Save that they did not last?