 | Sonnets |  |
22
INVOCATION.
TO MEMORY.
O DIM, sweet Memory, if thou couldest dower
My latter day with snatches of such rest
As that wherewith my twilight thoughts were blest,
When life for me was yet a folded flower;
Could I but feel again for one soft hour
All hope, all fears annulled upon that breast,
Whereto when I—a weary child—was pressed,
God was made flesh for me and dwelt in power!
My latter day with snatches of such rest
As that wherewith my twilight thoughts were blest,
When life for me was yet a folded flower;
Could I but feel again for one soft hour
All hope, all fears annulled upon that breast,
Whereto when I—a weary child—was pressed,
God was made flesh for me and dwelt in power!
Could she—my mother—lay me down at even,
Soft, warm, with glow of merry flames that leapt,
And babble of her ministers, who kept
Watch when she went to shine in some near heaven,—
While over me the very dreams that crept,
Whispered of love still waking while I slept!
Soft, warm, with glow of merry flames that leapt,
And babble of her ministers, who kept
Watch when she went to shine in some near heaven,—
While over me the very dreams that crept,
Whispered of love still waking while I slept!
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