If Sometimes in the Haunts of Men

If sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile I waste one thought I owe to thee, And self-condemned, appear to smile, Unfaithful to thy memory: Nor deem that memory less dear, That then I seem not to repine; I would not fools should overhear One sigh that should be wholly _thine_.…