Page:Heath's Book of Beauty 1833.pdf/16

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I have no future—could I bear To dream a dream you do not share? It is hope makes futurity— What, now, has hope to do with me?

Amid the ruins of my heart I'll sit and weep alone; Mourn for the idols that depart, The altars overthrown, With faded cheek and weary eyes, Till life be thy last sacrifice. Alas for youth, and hope, and bloom! Alas for my forgotten tomb!