A pen--to register; a key-- <br />That winds through secret wards <br />Are well assigned to Memory <br />By allegoric Bards. <br /> <br />As aptly, also, might be given <br />A Pencil to her hand; <br />That, softening objects, sometimes even <br />Outstrips the heart's demand; <br /> <br />That smooths foregone distress, the lines <br />Of lingering care subdues, <br />Long-vanished happiness refines, <br />And clothes in brighter hues; <br /> <br />Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works <br />Those Spectres to dilate <br />That startle Conscience, as she lurks <br />Within her lonely seat. <br /> <br />Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast, <br />In purity were such, <br />That not an image of the past <br />Should fear that pencil's touch! <br /> <br />Retirement then might hourly look <br />Upon a soothing scene, <br />Age steal to his allotted nook <br />Contented and serene; <br /> <br />With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, <br />In frosty moonlight glistening; <br />Or mountain rivers, where they creep <br />Along a channel smooth and deep, <br />To their own far-off murmurs listening.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memory-2/
