Memory,hither come,
And tune your merry notes;
And,while upon the wind
Your music floats,

I`ll pore upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I`ll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet`s song;
And there I`ll lie and dream
The day along:

And,when night comes,I`ll go
To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darken`d valley
With silent Melancholy.

William Blake