And we should live these thousand years.
We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day,
And make the tour of all the spheres.
We'd do strange things! Sweet stars would shine,
And Death would spare my love and thine.
XXVII.
But these are dreams; and dreams are vain;
Mine most of all,—so heed them not.
Brave thoughts will die, though men complain,
And mine was bold! 'Tis now forgot.