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OLD MEMORIES. |
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The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||
OLD MEMORIES.
What olden memories are these that throng
To greet me on the threshold of this day,—
Of buried hours what melancholy array?
Dull, now, the eyes that once were clear and strong,
Their lips but whisper that once thrilled with song;
Their grave-clothes are upon them, and they say:
“Know'st thou us still, and by what winding way
We led thy steps; nor did that path seem long?”
To greet me on the threshold of this day,—
Of buried hours what melancholy array?
Dull, now, the eyes that once were clear and strong,
Their lips but whisper that once thrilled with song;
Their grave-clothes are upon them, and they say:
“Know'st thou us still, and by what winding way
We led thy steps; nor did that path seem long?”
Yea, verily, I know ye but too well:
Your loving kindness once indeed was sweet,
Your deep joy subtler than a man may tell;—
But why, with hearts that can no longer beat,
Why come ye back, and weave the olden spell
To daze my senses and perplex my feet?
Your loving kindness once indeed was sweet,
Your deep joy subtler than a man may tell;—
But why, with hearts that can no longer beat,
Why come ye back, and weave the olden spell
To daze my senses and perplex my feet?
The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||