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Chapter 97 : THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS There is a pity in forgotten things, Banished the heart

THE TRIUMPH OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

There is a pity in forgotten things, Banished the heart they can no longer fill, Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings, Must seek new pleasures still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot; They wait--they find the portal long unused; And knocking there, it shall refuse them not,-- Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years, In alien pledges spend the heart's estate, They bide some blessed moment of quick tears-- Some moment without date--

Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew, Some tremble at the ear of memoried sound Of mother-song,--they seize the slender clew,-- The old loves gather round!

When that which lured us once now lureth not, But the tired hands their garnered dross let fall, This is the triumph of the things forgot-- To hear the tired heart call!

And they are with us at Life's farthest reach, A light when into shadow all else dips, As, in the stranger's land, their native speech Returns to dying lips!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]

IN THE TWILIGHT

Men say the sullen instrument, That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!

The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro, With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, Live and rejoice?

That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice?

When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years?

Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses?

Have I heard, have I seen All I feel, all I know?

Doth my heart overween?

Or could it have been Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak it and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should once more have a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

AN IMMORALITY

Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pa.s.s all men's believing.

Ezra Pound [1885-

THREE SEASONS

"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.

"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.

"A cup for memory!"

Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces--

How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed,-- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Charles Lamb [1775-1834]

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!