Memory Most Mar
Love is not love that alteration finds,
and passing praise as phase inks poet's pen
to coin a phrase cued into mistress' minds,
now Ann now Fanny, to and fro again.
Yet you who'd love tomorrow may be gone
before dawn tints with amber flame hope's star,
when moments lived, both first and last are done,
twinned till time out, then memory most mar.
Who throws all caution to the winds must rake
but bitter chips when passion teams no more,
dream themes prove flimsy farce, cast losing stake
when black Jack's bluff's called, shown to bolted door.
O those who'd love beyond the infinite
too often find blight, night, right flight indict.
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