di Anne Hunter (fl. 1790)

The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more.
Why cannot I the days forget,
Which time can ne'er restore?
O days too fair, too bright to last,
Are you indeed forever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight
In memory I trace;
In fancy stop their rapid flight
And all the past replace.
But ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close.