Poem by George Crabbe

Meeting

MY Damon was the first to wake
   The gentle flame that cannot die;
My Damon is the last to take
   The faithful bosom's softest sigh:
The life between is nothing worth,
   O cast it from thy thought away!
Think of the day that gave it birth,
   And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done,
   Or say that naught is done amiss;
For who the dangerous path can shun
   In such bewildering world as this?
But love can every fault forgive,
   Or with a tender look reprove;
And now let naught in memory live
   But that we meet, and that we love. 

1. To a Lady, on Leaving Her at Sidmouth
2. Lines Written at Warwick
3. On the Death of William Springall Levett
4. Concluding Lines of Prize Poem on Hope
5. Cupid

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