Anne Hunter (1742–1821)

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 sweet, too bright to last,

Are you indeed for ever 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 vision close!