George Crabbe (1754–1832)

MY Damon was the first to wake

The gentle flame that cannot die;

My Damon is the last to take

The faithful bosom’s softest sigh:

The life between is nothing worth,

O! cast it from thy thought away;

Think of the day that gave it birth,

And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done,

Or say that naught is done amiss;

For who the dangerous path can shun

In such bewildering world as this?

But love can every fault forgive,

Or with a tender look reprove;

And now let naught in memory live,

But that we meet, and that we love.