Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away; Or yet a flower that has blown and shattered in a day; For passion sleeps, alas, and keeps no vigil with the years And wakens to no conjuring of orisons or tears. Consider me a melody that served its simple turn, Or but the residue of fire that settles in the urn, For love defies pure reasoning and undeterred flows Within, without the vassal heart—its reasoning, who knows?