“The Memory”

Here is the land of memory

A placid place of gentle gusts

Where you can hear the sighing hiss

Of wind-tossed wheat fields, heady birch,

The murmur of a midnight bosk.

 

Here run rivers red with wine

And all the colored lights that through

A sea-shore’s stock of empty glass

Had passed or stoppered ere you strolled

The sandy margin of the tide.

 

Here they keep, like crescent ships,

Those glinting shards of shiny moon

That night and nothing cut or shave

From her, the moon, to lighten her

Each day, to run her course.

 

And here, with all forgotten things

That never leave my heart

I left your smile and laughter too

Your pretty hair, and that first hour

I knew I was in love with you.