Better Than Forgetting

Sad hours are these, I ween,
Sad glimmers of yestreen,
Sad bodings of tomorrow.
As spirits dead-lights wave
Above a new-made grave,
So brood I o'er my sorrow.
From weary, weary, dawn
Till weary day's withdrawn,
And till the stars are setting,
O heart thou rt filled with pain
Of the ne'er-to-be-again;
But worse would be forgetting.