Memory

SO shuts the marigold her leaves, At the departure of the sun;, So from the honeysuckle sheaves, The bee goes when the day is done;, So sits the turtle when she is but one,, And so all woe, as I since she is gone., , To some few birds kind Nature hath, Made all the summer as one day:, Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath, As night they sleeping pass away., Those happy creatures are, that know not yet, The pain to be deprived or to forget., , I oft have heard men say there be, Some that with confidence profess, The helpful Art of Memory:, But could they teach Forgetfulness,, I'd learn; and try what further art could do, To make me love her and forget her too.