The One Before the Last

I dreamt I was in love again
With the One Before the Last,
And smiled to greet the pleasant pain
Of that innocent young past.

But I jump'd to feel how sharp had been
The pain when it did live,
How the faded dreams of Nineteen-ten
Were Hell in Nineteen-five.

The boy's woe was as keen and clear,
The boy's love just as true,
And the One Before the Last, my dear,
Hurt quite as much as you.

Sickly I ponder'd how the lover
Wrongs the unanswering tomb,
And sentimentalizes over
What earn'd a better doom.

Gently he tombs the poor dim last time,
Strews pinkish dust above,
And sighs, 'The dear dead boyish pastime;
But this— ah, God! — is Love!'

— Better oblivion hide dead true loves,
Better the night enfold,
Than men, to eke the praise of new loves,
Should lie about the old!

Oh! bitter thoughts I had in plenty.
But here 's the worst of it —
I shall forget, in Nineteen-twenty,
You ever hurt a bit!