 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
Memory
Soon the silver chord is broken,
Where sweet music lov'd to dwell;
Soon, too soon alas! is spoken
Love's fond-echo'd word, farewell.
Where sweet music lov'd to dwell;
Soon, too soon alas! is spoken
Love's fond-echo'd word, farewell.
Soon the waves, so lightly bounding,
All forget the tempest blast;
Soon the pines, so sadly sounding,
Cease to mourn the storm that's past.
All forget the tempest blast;
Soon the pines, so sadly sounding,
Cease to mourn the storm that's past.
Soon is hush'd the voice of gladness,
Heard within the green wood's breast;
Yet comes back no notes of sadness,
No remembrance breaks its rest.
Heard within the green wood's breast;
Yet comes back no notes of sadness,
No remembrance breaks its rest.
Soon the river, brightly gleaming,
Rolls its dark forgetful wave;
As if sun were on it beaming,
And still give the light it gave.
Rolls its dark forgetful wave;
As if sun were on it beaming,
And still give the light it gave.
But the heart too fond may treasure
Words it cannot hear again—
Echoes of remember'd pleasure,
Torturing there for aye remain.
Words it cannot hear again—
Echoes of remember'd pleasure,
Torturing there for aye remain.
Ling'ring looks around it hover,
Mock with thoughts of former joy;
Visions it can ne'er recover,
Looks that time can ne'er destroy.
Mock with thoughts of former joy;
Visions it can ne'er recover,
Looks that time can ne'er destroy.
Poem No. 429; late 1835–early 1836?
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |