THE MOTHER of the Muses, we are taught, <br />Is Memory: she has left me; they remain, <br />And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing <br />About the summer days, my loves of old. <br />Alas! alas! is all I can reply. <br />Memory has left with me that name alone, <br />Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, <br />But her bright image in my darkest hour <br />Comes back, in vain comes back, call’d or uncall’d. <br />Forgotten are the names of visitors <br />Ready to press my hand but yesterday; <br />Forgotten are the names of earlier friends <br />Whose genial converse and glad countenance <br />Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye; <br />To these, when I have written and besought <br />Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone <br />Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. <br />A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, <br />If thy stream carried only weeds away, <br />But vernal and autumnal flowers alike <br />It hurries down to wither on the strand.<br /><br />Walter Savage Landor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/memory-131/
