These days are now over, and all that have been my pleasure to love, returned or not, must pass into the shadows of dreaming, and after, perhaps I can hope, to forgetfullness, would that unreturned love leave me in peace, ere I am forgotten, rather than be the familar wound upon a wandering heart.

How easy it was that I should be forgotten, my words undone, and to be thought of only as the passing storm. Remember, as you will, you who do not truely know me.

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