Is Memory most of miseries miserable,
Or the one flower of ease in bitterest hell?

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

When Memory is full

When Memory is full
Put on the perfect Lid -
This Morning's finest syllable
Presumptuous Evening said -

by Emily Dickinson.

The Sepulchre Of Memory

And where is truth? On tombs? for such to thee
Has been my heart—and thy dead memory
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year,
Unchangingly preserved and buried there.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

On A Late Impiric Of Balmy Memory

His namesake, born of Jewish breeder,
Knew 'from the Hyssop to the Cedar;'
But he, unlike the Jewish leader,
Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.


R. et R.

by Charles Lamb.

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years-
To remember with tears!

by William Allingham.

ONE had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.

by William Butler Yeats.

To Flee From Memory

To flee from memory
Had we the Wings
Many would fly
Inured to slower things
Birds with surprise
Would scan the cowering Van
Of men escaping
From the mind of man

by Emily Dickinson.

Three Things To Remember

A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.

A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.

by William Blake.

Remembrance has a Rear and Front

Remembrance has a Rear and Front -
'Tis something like a House -
It has a Garret also
For Refuse and the Mouse.

Besides the deepest Cellar
That ever Mason laid -
Look to it by its Fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued -

by Emily Dickinson.

'Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams;
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of life is overcast;
Love Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!

by George Gordon Byron.

The Remembrance Of The Good

THE remembrance of the Good
Keep us ever glad in mood.

The remembrance of the Fair
Makes a mortal rapture share.

The remembrance of one's Love
Blest Is, if it constant prove.

The remembrance of the One
Is the greatest joy that's known.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

A Terrible Infant

I recollect a nurse call'd Ann,
Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up, and kissed the pretty lass.
She did not make the least objection!
Thinks I, 'Aha!
When I can talk I'll tell Mamma'
- And that's my earliest recollection.

by Frederick Locker-Lampson.

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.

by Oliver Goldsmith.

Remember Thee! Remember Thee!

Remember thee! remember thee!
Till Lethe quench life's burning stream
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

by George Gordon Byron.

'Once they were lovers,' says the world, 'with young hearts all aglow;
They have forgotten,' says the world, 'forgotten long ago.'
Between ourselves-just whisper it-the old world does not know.

They walk their lone, divided ways, but ever with them goes
Remembrance, the subtle breath of love's sweet thorny rose.

by Jean Blewett.

Return often and take me,
beloved sensation, return and take me --
when the memory of the body awakens,
and an old desire runs again through the blood;
when the lips and the skin remember,
and the hands feel as if they touch again.

Return often and take me at night,
when the lips and the skin remember...

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

After A Hundred Years

After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place,--
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.

Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.

Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way,--
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.

by Emily Dickinson.

To The Memory Of The Rev. Richard Crawley, Of Steeple Ashton, Wiltshire, The Author's Uncle

Goodness, Friendship, Wit, and Mirth,
All lie buried in this earth.
Sussex bore him, Cambridge bred,
Steeple Ashton holds him dead.
Stranger, if you more would know
Of the man that sleeps below,
And study all his gracious parts
As they're graven on our hearts,
Humbly tread the path he trod,
And see him where he is with God.

by Richard Crawley.

I should like to relate this memory ...
but it is so faded now ... scarecely anthing is left --
because it lies far off, in the years of my early manhood.

A skin as if made of jasmine ...
that night in August -- was it August? -- that night ...
I can just barely remember the eyes; they were, I think, blue ...
Ah yes, blue; a sapphire blue.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

The Nights Remember

THE days remember and the nights remember
The kingly hours that once you made so great,
Deep in my heart they lie, hidden in their splendor,
Buried like sovereigns in their robes of state.
Let them not wake again, better to lie there,
Wrapped in memories, jewelled and arrayed—
Many a ghostly king has waked from death-sleep
And found his crown stolen and his throne decayed.

by Sara Teasdale.

Remorse - Is Memory - Awake -

Remorse - is Memory - awake -
Her Parties all astir -
A Presence of Departed Acts -
At window - and at Door -

Its Past - set down before the Soul
And lighted with a Match -
Perusal - to facilitate -
And help Belief to stretch -

Remorse is cureless - the Disease
Not even God - can heal -
For 'tis His institution - and
The Adequate of Hell -

by Emily Dickinson.

Through rifts of cloud the moon’s soft silver slips;
A little rain has fallen with the night,
Which from the emerald under-sky still drips
Where the magnolias open, broad and white.

So near my window I might reach my hand
And touch these milky stars, that to and fro
Wave, odorous. . . .Yet ’t was in another land-
How long ago, my love, how long ago!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

My Mother's Memory

There is one bright star in heaven
Ever shining in my night;
God to me one guide has given
Like the sailor's beacon light,
Set on every shoal of danger
Sending out its warning ray
To the homebound weary stranger
Looking for the land-locked bay.
In my farthest, wildest wand'rings
I have turned me to that love,
As a diver, neath the water,
Turns to watch the light above.

by John Boyle O'Reilly.

Remember, Body...

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires which for you
plainly glowed in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice -- and some
chance obstacle made them futile.
Now that all belongs to the past,
it is almost as if you had yielded
to those desires too -- remember,
how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Body, remember not only how much you were loved
not only the beds you lay on.
but also those desires glowing openly
in eyes that looked at you,
trembling for you in voices-
only some chance obstacle frustrated them.
Now that it's all finally in the past,
it seems almost as if you gave yourself
to those desires too-how they glowed,
remember, in eyes that looked at you,
remember, body, how they trembled for you in those voices.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

The Net Of Memory

I cast the Net of Memory,
Man's torment and delight,
Over the level Sands of Youth
That lay serenely bright,
Their tranquil gold at times submerged
In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight.

The Net brought up, in silver gleams,
Forgotten truth and fancies fair:
Like opal shells, small happy facts
Within the Net entangled were
With the red coral of his lips,
The waving seaweed of his hair.

We were so young; he was so fair.

by Govinda Krishna Chettur.

A YEAR is a thief
Who comes in the guise of a friend
Saying, 'Let us travel together,
We have much to give each other.
See, I hold back nothing--
For what is giving
Between friends?'

Yet when the year departs
He takes his gifts with him--
'Oh, Robber!' we cry,
Aghast and weeping,
'Nay,' he replies, 'I did but lend.
Still, for your weeping, I will leave you something.

It is not the real thing
But you may keep it always.'

by Isabel Ecclestone Mackay.

A Memory Of The Players In A Mirror At Midnight

They mouth love's language. Gnash
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares
Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing. None
Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!

by James Joyce.

In Memory Of Edward Wilson, Who Repented Of What Was In His Mind To Write After Section

Rigid Body (sings).


Gin a body meet a body
Flyin’ through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne’er a ane hae I,
Yet a’ the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.

Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o’ them,
But what the waur am I?

by James Clerk Maxwell.

To The Lamented Memory Of F. H. C.

Sweet friend, farewell! to whom propitious birth
Gave beauty—sense—the prosperous goods of earth;
To whom not less were faith and duty given,
Those better gifts which fit our earth for heaven.
First by glad days—then through long sickness tried,
'Mid pleasures—pure—by pain still purified;—
Such was that soul, which meekly kissed the rod,
Then soared, for us too soon, and rests with God.
Farewell! our love inscribes this faithful stone,
Not to bewail thy lot, but weep our own.

by John Kenyon.

She had an other-worldly air,
So like a flower she grew,
As if her thoughts and feelings were
The only life she knew.
She moved in other ways apart,
As in a secret place,
And the emotion of her heart
Seemed breathing in her face.
It was as if a faery power
Had charmed her with its mood,
And graced her with the dreamy dower
Of earthly angelhood.
And when Death touched her starry brow,
It seemed as if it were
The dream she was became somehow
Another dream of her.

by Robert Crawford.

The First Day That I Was A Life

902

The first Day that I was a Life
I recollect it—How still—
That last Day that I was a Life
I recollect it—as well—

'Twas stiller—though the first
Was still—
"Twas empty—but the first
Was full—

This—was my finallest Occasion—
But then
My tenderer Experiment
Toward Men—

"Which choose I"?
That—I cannot say—
"Which choose They"?
Question Memory!

by Emily Dickinson.

He must be barely twenty-two years old
yet I'm certain just about that long ago
I enjoyed the very same body.

It isn't erotic fever at all.
And I came into the casino only a few minutes ago,
so I haven't had time to drink very much.
I enjoyed that very same body.

And if I don't remember where, this one lapse of memory doesn't mean a thing.

There, now that he's sitting down at the next table,
I recognize every motion he makes -and under his clothes
I see again the limbs that I loved, naked.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Full oft it was as balmy night
Wove many a web of dreamy light,
The moon so touched her budding charms,
I feared for my enfolding arms,
That held her close.

And so, on one forbidding night,
That knew no moon's caressing light,
All withered lay her blossomed charms
In envious death's relentless arms,
That held her close.

But oft again in memory's night
The moon refloods the scene with light,
And lovelier still, her wakened charms
Rejoice my fond, enfolding arms,
That hold her close.

by Edward Robeson Taylor.

Song: Memory, Hither Come

Memory, hither come,
And tune your merry notes;
And, while upon the wind
Your music floats,

I'll pore upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet's song;
And there I'll lie and dream
The day along:

And, when night comes, I'll go
To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darken'd valley
With silent Melancholy.

by William Blake.

O THOUGHT, fly to her when the end of day
Awakens an old memory, and say,
'Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,
It might call up a new age, calling to mind
The queens that were imagined long ago,
Is but half yours: he kneaded in the dough
Through the long years of youth, and who would have thought
It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,
And that dear words meant nothing?' But enough,
For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;
Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said
That would be harsh for children that have strayed.

by William Butler Yeats.

I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

In The Harbour: Memories

Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

When I Have Borne In Memory

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men:
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

by William Wordsworth.