Written After Leaving West Point.

A poem by Frances Anne Kemble

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those happy hours, when down the mountain side,
We saw the rosy mists of morning glide,
And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way,
Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat,
We sought the waterfall with loitering feet,
And o'er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool,
Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky,
Alike without a cloud, without a ray,
The round red autumn moon came glowingly,
While o'er the leaden waves our boat made way.

The hours are past, love,
Oh, fled they not too fast, love!
Those blessed hours, when the bright day was past,
And in the world we seemed to wake alone,
When heart to heart beat throbbingly, and fast,
And love was melting our two souls in one.