Separation
By Matthew Arnold
Stop Not to me, at this bitter departing,
Speak of the sure consolations of Time.
Fresh be the wound, still-renewd be its smarting,
So but thy image endure in its prime.
But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature
Wills that remembrance should always decay;
If the lovd form and the deep-cherishd feature
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away
Me let no half-effacd memories cumber!
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee
Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber
Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays towards me,
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there,
Who, let me say, is this Stranger regards me,
With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?