O lovely moon, how well do I recall
The time,—’t is just a year—when up this hill
I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
And thou suspended wast o’er yonder grove,
As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
They countenance to me, because my eyes
Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
And is so still, unchanged, beloved moon!
And yet this recollection pleases me,
This computation of my sorrow’s age.
How pleasant it is, in the days of youth,
When hope a long career before it hath,
And memories are few, upon the past
To dwell, though sad, and though the sorrow last!
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