Remembrance

I think that we retain of our dead friends And absent ones no general portraiture; That perfect memory does not long endure, But fades and fades until our own life ends. Unconsciously, forgetfulness attends That grief for which there is no other cure, But leaves of each lost one some record sure,— A look, an act, a tone,—something that lends Relief and consolation, not regret. Even that poor mother mourning her dead child, Whose agonizing eyes with tears are wet, Whose bleeding heart cannot be reconciled Unto the grave’s embrace,—even she shall yet Remember only when her babe first smiled.

Collection: 
English
John Henry Boner

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