 | [Memory, in] The lady's almanac for 1875 |  |
65
MEMORY.
In the still warmth of Indian-summer days,
When the tired land lies sleeping,
Hiding beneath a veil of purple haze
Her fields bare from the reaping,
We pause, and listen, as we stray among the leafless trees:
A voice comes back from out the past, borne on the western breeze;
Years roll away; we drop our cares, and close our wearied eyes
To present life, as, like a dream, old memories arise
Of hearts still here, though gone from us—of hearts in worlds above—
Who gave to us life's greatest gift—our one real love.
When the tired land lies sleeping,
Hiding beneath a veil of purple haze
Her fields bare from the reaping,
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A voice comes back from out the past, borne on the western breeze;
Years roll away; we drop our cares, and close our wearied eyes
To present life, as, like a dream, old memories arise
Of hearts still here, though gone from us—of hearts in worlds above—
Who gave to us life's greatest gift—our one real love.
Once we were loved—perhaps that love we spurned
For one that proved unreal;
Perhaps we took it, and it changed, and turned
Away from love's ideal.
It matters not—its memory comes back with tender pride:
“She loved me once—me, only me, of all the world beside!”
It matters not when in our hearts this written truth we see—
“He loved me once with all his love; he loved me—only me!”
Deep down, deep down, through care, through pain, through age, we prize, above
All other gifts, this memory of our one real love.
For one that proved unreal;
Perhaps we took it, and it changed, and turned
Away from love's ideal.
It matters not—its memory comes back with tender pride:
“She loved me once—me, only me, of all the world beside!”
It matters not when in our hearts this written truth we see—
“He loved me once with all his love; he loved me—only me!”
Deep down, deep down, through care, through pain, through age, we prize, above
All other gifts, this memory of our one real love.
The weary heart would soon lie down and die
Of its own sin and sorrow,
Could it not from this treasured memory
Ever now courage borrow.
“Once I was loved—with all my faults was loved!” O silent sound!
Hearest thou that, thou last red leaf, soft falling to the ground?
O purple haze, O gold-dust gleams, on hills afar and near,
Once there was one to whose fond heart my every word was dear!
O Indian summer's inner soul!—O spirit from above!—
Blessed be thou, O memory of our one real love!
Of its own sin and sorrow,
Could it not from this treasured memory
Ever now courage borrow.
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Hearest thou that, thou last red leaf, soft falling to the ground?
O purple haze, O gold-dust gleams, on hills afar and near,
Once there was one to whose fond heart my every word was dear!
O Indian summer's inner soul!—O spirit from above!—
Blessed be thou, O memory of our one real love!
| [Memory, in] The lady's almanac for 1875 | |