Lord Byron (1788–1824)

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.