The One Before the Last
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dreamt I was in love againWith the One Before the Last,And smiled to greet the pleasant painOf that innocent young past. But I jumped to feel how sharp had beenThe pain when it did live,How the faded dreams of Nineteen-tenWere Hell in Nineteen-five. The boy's woe was as keen and clear,The boy's love just as true,And the One Before the Last, my dear,Hurt quite as much as you. * * * * * Sickly I pondered how the loverWrongs the unanswering tomb,And sentimentalizes overWhat earned a better doom. Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,Strews pinkish dust above,And sighs, "The dear dead boyish pastime!But THIS -- ah, God! -- is Love!" -- Better oblivion hide dead true loves,Better the night enfold,Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,Should lie about the old! * * * * * Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.But here's the worst of it --I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,YOU ever hurt abit!
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