| All my past life is mine no more ; |
| The flying hours are gone, |
| Like transitory dreams given o'er |
| Whose images are kept in store |
By memory alone.
|
| Whatever is to come is not : |
| How can it then be mine ? |
| The present moment's all my lot, |
| And that, as fast as it is got, |
Phyllis, is wholly thine.
|
| Then talk not of inconstancy, |
| False hearts, and broken
vows ; |
| If I, by miracle, can be |
| This livelong minute true to thee, |
'Tis all that heaven
allows.
|
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