Separation

Stop⁠—Not to me, at this bitter departing,
  Speak of the sure consolations of Time.
Fresh be the wound, still-renew’d be its smarting,
  So but thy image endure in its prime.

But, if the steadfast commandment of Nature
  Wills that remembrance should always decay;
If the lov’d form and the deep-cherish’d feature
  Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away⁠—

Me let no half-effac’d memories cumber!
  Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee⁠—
Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber⁠—
  Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!

Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me,
  Scanning my face and the changes wrought there⁠—
Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me,
  With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?