Robert Louis Stevenson

In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand
As heretofore:
The unremembered tokens in your hand
Avail no more.

No more the morning glow, no more the grace,
Enshrines, endears.
Cold beats the light of time upon your face
And shows your tears.

He came and went.  Perchance you wept a while
And then forgot.
Ah me! but he that left you with a smile
Forgets you not.