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.