Go, forget me - why should sorrow, O'er that brow a shadow fling?

The words of Charles Wolfe—“Go, forget me—why should sorrow, O’er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me—and tomorrow, brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile—though I shall not be near thee; Sing—though I shall never hear thee.”—are not merely a poet’s lament. They are the voice of love refined by sacrifice, the voice of a soul that prefers the happiness of another over its own lingering presence. In these lines, Wolfe does not clutch or demand, but releases, commanding joy where sorrow would naturally dwell. His is a lesson as old as the ancients: to love is not to bind, but to let the beloved walk in freedom, even if it means walking away.

In this, the poet reflects the wisdom of noble partings. To say “Go, forget me” is not resignation but a heroic act, an offering upon the altar of love. The human heart clings, yet here it learns to loosen its grasp. What grandeur lies in such release! The lover would rather see smiles and songs upon the face of the beloved than tears and shadows cast by memory. This, then, is love stripped of selfishness. It does not demand remembrance, nor bind the other with sorrow, but gives wings so that life may still blossom in joy.

The ancients told tales that echo this truth. Recall the story of Orpheus, who descended into Hades to reclaim Eurydice. Out of love, he braved death itself, yet his desire to see her face again destroyed the very chance of her return. He looked back, though forbidden, and she vanished forever. In contrast, Wolfe’s lines counsel a different courage: not to hold fast at all costs, but to release. Where Orpheus failed in his longing, Wolfe’s lover triumphs in his surrender. To set free is often harder than to hold, but it is also the greater wisdom.

History too gives us examples. When the young soldier Henry Lee wrote to his beloved before riding into battle, he urged her not to weep should he fall, but to live with dignity and joy. He knew the sword might sever his thread of life, but he did not wish his name to become a chain around her soul. Like Wolfe, he sought her laughter beyond his absence, her life unburdened by his fate. Thus, even in war and death, the lesson rang true: love must uplift, never imprison.

Let us, then, grasp the heart of this teaching. The shadow of sorrow may be long, but we are not meant to dwell beneath it forever. Love’s purity lies in its power to will the good of the other, even at the expense of one’s own longing. To say, “Smile though I am gone,” is to declare: your happiness is my final gift, your freedom my last blessing. And in that selflessness, love reaches its highest form.

The lesson for us is clear. In life, we will lose, we will part, we will stand at gravesides or watch dear ones walk away. Yet let us not burden them—or ourselves—with chains of endless sorrow. Instead, let us learn to release with grace. To remember with gratitude, but to live forward with courage. The beloved’s true wish is not our perpetual mourning, but our continued song.

Practically, this means we must practice both remembrance and release. When grief comes, honor it; but do not let it define you. Each morning, take one step into joy, however small—a smile to a stranger, a song hummed in solitude, an act of kindness in memory of the one you miss. In doing so, you do not betray their memory; you fulfill it. For what greater tribute could there be than to live joyfully, carrying their love as a seed that grows into light?

Thus, Wolfe’s words endure across the centuries: “Smile—though I shall not be near thee; Sing—though I shall never hear thee.” They are not the cry of despair, but the voice of eternal wisdom. Love is not diminished by letting go—it is proven. So let us teach our children, and remind ourselves, that the measure of true love is not in how tightly we hold, but in how freely we bless.