We long to have again the vanished past, in spite of all its pain.

I miss it every minute, and I have no wish at all to go back.

how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet

Not to be born is, past all prizing, best.

Those you can't be,teach!

Memory takes a lot of poetic licence. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. The interior is therefore rather dim and poetic.