Memory

So shuts the marigold her leaves

At the departure of the sun;

So from the honeysuckle sheaves

The bee goes when the day is done;

So sits the turtle when she is but one,

And so all woe, as I since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath

Made all the summer as one day:

Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath

As night they sleeping pass away.

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet

The pain to be deprived or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be

Some that with confidence profess

The helpful Art of Memory:

But could they teach Forgetfulness,