In After Time

NO, my own love of other years!
No, it must never be.
Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?
Could those bright years o-er me revolve
So gay, o-er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve
And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne-er decay,
Whatever fate befalls;
I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin-d walls.