You May Forget But

You may forget but
let me tell you
this: someone in
some future time
will think of us

by Sappho.

Whether they have forgotten

Whether they have forgotten
Or are forgetting now
Or never remembered -
Safer not to know -

Miseries of conjecture
Are a softer woe
Than a Fact of Iron
Hardened with I know -

by Emily Dickinson.

Heart, We Will Forget Him

Heart, we will forget him,
You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done pray tell me,
Then I, my thoughts, will dim.
Haste! ‘lest while you’re lagging
I may remember him!

by Emily Dickinson.

How Happy I Was If I Could Forget

898

How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom

Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.

by Emily Dickinson.

Shall I Forget?

Shall I forget on this side of the grave?
I promise nothing: you must wait and see
Patient and brave.
(O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?
I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see
Faithful and wise.
(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Let It Be Forgotten

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.

by Sara Teasdale.

He Forgot—and I—remembered

203

He forgot—and I—remembered—
'Twas an everyday affair—
Long ago as Christ and Peter—
"Warmed them" at the "Temple fire."

"Thou wert with him"—quoth "the Damsel"?
"No"—said Peter, 'twasn't me—
Jesus merely "looked" at Peter—
Could I do aught else—to Thee?

by Emily Dickinson.

I have laid sorrow to sleep;
Love sleeps.
She who oft made me weep
Now weeps.

I loved, and have forgot,
And yet
Love tells me she will not
Forget.

She it was bid me go;
Love goes
By what strange ways, ah! no
One knows.

Because I cease to weep,
She weeps.
Here by the sea in sleep,
Love sleeps.

by Arthur Symons.

Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered

523

Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered
Every time—for Two—
So that the Sum be never hindered
Through Decay of You—

Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings—
Blame the little Hand
Happy it be for You—a Beggar's—
Seeking More—to spend—

Just to be Rich—to waste my Guineas
On so Best a Heart—
Just to be Poor—for Barefoot Vision
You—Sweet—Shut me out—

by Emily Dickinson.

I

Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig--which the pluckers forgot, somehow--
Forget it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.

II

Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found,
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound,
Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.

by Sappho.

Je N'Ai Pas Oublié, Voisine De La Ville (I'Ve Not Forgotten, Near The Town)

I've not forgotten, near to the town,
our white house, small but alone:
its Pomona of plaster, its Venus of old
hiding nude limbs in the meagre grove,
and the sun, superb, at evening, streaming,
behind the glass, where its sheaves were bursting,
a huge eye in a curious heaven, present
to gaze at our meal, lengthy and silent,
spreading its beautiful candle glimmer
on the frugal cloth and the rough curtain.

by Charles Baudelaire.

The Earthly Heart

The earthly heart quit freezes blood,
But, with my breast, I meet great cold.
I bear on the empty road
The virgin love to all mankind.

But, behind love, grow the wrath,
Heavy derision, and desire
To read in eyes of all entire
Oblivion or the final choice.

And let they call, "Forget, bard, this!
Back - to the beautiful and cozy!"
No! Better to be fully frozen!
There is no coziness no peace!

by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok.

Oh, my heart, when life is done,
How happy will the hour be!
All its restless errands run:
Noontide past, and set of sun,
And the long, long night begun;
How happy will the hour be!

Sunlight, like a butterfly,
Drop down and kiss the roses;
Starlight, softly come and lie
Where dreamful slumber closes;
But Death, sweet Death, be nigh, be neigh,
Where love in peace reposes!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Darling,' he said, 'I never meant
To hurt you;' and his eyes were wet.
'I would not hurt you for the world:
Am I to blame if I forget?'

'Forgive my selfish tears!' she cried,
'Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet-
I knew it was that you forgot!'

But all the same, deep in her heart
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet,-
'When love is at its best, one loves
So much that he cannot forget.'

by Helen Hunt Jackson.

BROWN leaves forget the green of May,
The earth forgets the kiss of Spring;
And down our happy woodland way
Gray mists go wandering.


You have forgotten too, they say;
Yet, does no stealthy memory creep
Among the mist wreaths, ghostly gray,
Where spell-bound violets sleep?


Ah, send your thought sometimes to stray
By paths that knew our lingering feet.
My thought walks there this many a day,
And they, at least, may meet.

by Edith Nesbit.

Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered

523

Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered
Every time—for Two—
So that the Sum be never hindered
Through Decay of You—

Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings—
Blame the little Hand
Happy it be for You—a Beggar's—
Seeking More—to spend—

Just to be Rich—to waste my Guineas
On so Best a Heart—
Just to be Poor—for Barefoot Vision
You—Sweet—Shut me out—

by Emily Dickinson.

Poets Forgotten

POETS forgotten! Unknown poets! Ye
Beyond the reach of glory! Still I must
Go seeking you along the desolate quay,
And on old bookshelves mouldering in dust.

And am rewarded when I find some great,
Beautiful verse full of a rich heart's blood,
And feel in pride that I am making good,
In spite of gods, the injury of Fate.

O roses faded in the weary years,
O laurels languishing resigned to die,
How many times, under my lamp, my tears
Have made you bloom as in the days gone by!

translated by Jethro Bithell

by Ernest Raynaud.

I'Ll Never Forget, I Vow (Verse Xiv)

I'll never forget, I vow,
That fall morning long ago,
When I saw a new leaf grow
Upon the old withered bow.

That dear morning when for naught,
By a stove whose flame had died,
A girl in love stood beside
An old man, and his hand sought.

YO NO PUEDO OLVIDAR NUNCA... (Verso XIV)

Yo no puedo olvidar nunca
La mañanita de otoño


En que le salió un retoño


A la pobre rama trunca.

La mañanita en que, en vano,
Junto a la estufa apagada,
Una niña enamorada
Le tendió al viejo la mano.

by Jose Marti.

This is to-day, a golden summer's day
And yet--and yet
My vengeful soul will not forget
The past, forever now forgot, you say.

From that half height where I had sadly climbed,
I stretched my hand,
I lone in all that land,
Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.

Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace,
You struggled up.
It is a bitter Cup,
That now for naught, you turn away your face.

I shall remember this for aye and aye.
Whate'er may come,
Although my lips are dumb,
My spirit holds you to that yesterday.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Will You Forget?

In years to come, will you forget,
Dear girl, how often we have met?
And I have gazed into your eyes
And there beheld no sad regret
To cloud the gladness of their skies,
While in your heart-unheard as yet
Love slept, oblivious of my sighs?
In years to come, will you forget?

Ah, me! I only pray that when,
In other days, some man of men
Has taught those eyes to laugh and weep
With joy and sorrow, hearts must ken
When love awakens in their deep,
I only pray some memory then,
Or sad or sweet, you still will keep
Of me and love that might have been.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Forget! The Lady With The Amulet

438

Forget! The lady with the Amulet
Forget she wore it at her Heart
Because she breathed against
Was Treason twixt?

Deny! Did Rose her Bee—
For Privilege of Play
Or Wile of Butterfly
Or Opportunity—Her Lord away?

The lady with the Amulet—will face—
The Bee—in Mausoleum laid—
Discard his Bride—
But longer than the little Rill—
That cooled the Forehead of the Hill—
While Other—went the Sea to fill—
And Other—went to turn the Mill—
I'll do thy Will—

by Emily Dickinson.

Bartimeus Grown Old

YEA, I am he that dwelt beside this tomb.
I was a child. God smote me from the sun.
A little while, I had forgot to run
Under the rain-sweet roof of almond bloom.
I had forgotten summer, and the flaw
Ruffling the gray sea and the yellowed grain.
Now I am old and I forget again,
But a man came and touched me, and I saw.

Long years he dowered me with imperial day,
Bright-blossomed night and all the stars in trust.
Now I am blind again, and by the way
Wait still to catch his footsteps in the dust.
Surely he comes?–and he will hear my cry,
Though he were stricken and dim and old as I.

by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall.

On Observing Some Names Of Little Note Recorded In The Biographia Britannica

Oh fond attempt to give a deathless lot,
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain recorded in historic page,
They court the notice of a future age,
Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land
Drop one by one from fame's neglecting hand,
Lethean gulfs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire,
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire;
There goes the parson, oh! illustrious spark,
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.

by William Cowper.

A Calendar Of Sonnets: April

No days such honored days as these! While yet
Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide
For some fair thing which should forever bide
On earth, her beauteous memory to set
In fitting frame that no age could forget,
Her name in lovely April's name did hide,
And leave it there, eternally allied
To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
And when fair Aphrodite passed from earth,
Her shrines forgotten and her feasts of mirth,
A holier symbol still in seal and sign,
Sweet April took, of kingdom most divine,
When Christ ascended, in the time of birth
Of spring anemones, in Palestine.

by Helen Hunt Jackson.

All Forgot For Recollecting

966

All forgot for recollecting
Just a paltry One—
All forsook, for just a Stranger's
New Accompanying—

Grace of Wealth, and Grace of Station
Less accounted than
An unknown Esteem possessing—
Estimate—Who can—

Home effaced—Her faces dwindled—
Nature—altered small—
Sun—if shone—or Storm—if shattered—
Overlooked I all—

Dropped—my fate—a timid Pebble—
In thy bolder Sea—
Prove—me—Sweet—if I regret it—
Prove Myself—of Thee—

by Emily Dickinson.

Let us forget. What matters it that we
Once reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,
And talked of love, and let our voices low,
And ruled for some brief sessions royally?
What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?
It has availed not anything, and so
Let it go by that we may better know
How poor a thing is lost to you and me.
But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet
Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew
From your drenched lids--and missed, with no regret,
Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you;
And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet
With all this waste of tears, let us forget!

by James Whitcomb Riley.

Sonnet Xv: The Birth-Bond

Have you not noted, in some family
Where two were born of a first marriage-bed,
How still they own their gracious bond, though fed
And nursed on the forgotten breast and knee?—
How to their father's children they shall be
In act and thought of one goodwill; but each
Shall for the other have, in silence speech,
And in a word complete community?
Even so, when first I saw you, seemed it, love,
That among souls allied to mine was yet
One nearer kindred than life hinted of.
O born with me somewhere that men forget,
And though in years of sight and sound unmet,
Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough!

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.

by John McCrae.

His Wines, Feasts And Funs

His wines, feasts and funs are forgotten,
His sword and his armour are left,
He, single, descends into rotten
A dungeon, without a lamp.

With a shrill and continued sound,
The door - all forgot it - is rolled:
Just dampness and darkness around,
And the window's set high and small.

His eyes grow used to the darkness,
And through humid gloom under vaults,
Strange marks dawn on stony vastness,
Of selling, wet floor, and wet walls.

He looks for a long time at networks
Of the marks, such unknown, and waits,
When his eyes, like eyes of all sinners,
Will be well enlightened by death.

by Fyodor Sologub.

He shone in the senate, the camp, and the grove,
The mirror of manhood, the darling of love.
He fought for his country, the star of the brave,
And died for it’s weal when to die was to save.

And Wisdom and Valour long over him wept,
And Beauty, for ages, strewed flowers where he slept.

And the bards of the people inwrought with their lays
The light of his glory, the sound of his praise.

But afar in the foreworld have faded their strains,
And now of his being what record remains?

Within a lone valley a tomb crumbles fast,
And the name of the Sleeper is lost in the past



by Charles Harpur.

Knows How To Forget!

433

Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how

Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now—

I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show

"How to forget"!
Say—some—Philosopher !
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!

Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it—
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know—

If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don't you know?

by Emily Dickinson.

Like to a coin, passing from hand to hand,
Are common memories, and day by day
The sharpness of their impress wears away.
But love's remembrances unspoiled with-stand
The touch of time, as in an antique land
Where some proud town old centuries did slay,
Intaglios buried lie, still in decay
Perfect and precious spite of grinding sand.
What fame or joy or sorrow has been ours,
What we have hoped or feared, we may forget.
The clearness of all memory time deflours,
Save that of love alone, persistent yet
Though sure oblivion all things else devours,
Its tracings firm as when they first were set.

by Arlo Bates.

Teach Me I Am Forgotten By The Dead

Teach me I am forgotten by the dead
And that the dead is by herself forgot
And I no longer would keep terms with me.
I would not murder, steal, or fornicate,
Nor with ambition break the peace of towns
But I would bury my ambition
The hope & action of my sovereign soul
In miserable ruin. Nor a hope
Should ever make a holiday for me
I would not be the fool of accident
I would not have a project seek an end
That needed aught
Beyond the handful of my present means
The sun of Duty drop from his firmament
To be a rushlight for each petty end
I would not harm my fellow men
On this low argument, 'twould harm myself.

by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Ch 07 On The Effects Of Education Story 07

I heard a pir-instructor say to his murid: ‘The mind of man is so much occupied with thoughts about maintenance that he would surpass the position of angels if he were to devote as many of them to the giver of maintenance.’

Yazed has not forgotten thee at the time
When thou wast sperm, buried, insensible.
He gave thee a soul, nature, intellect and perception,
Beauty, speech, opinion, meditation and acuteness.
He arranged five fingers on thy fist.
He fixed two arms to thy shoulders.
O thou whose aspirations are base, thinkest he will now
Forget to provide thee with a maintenance?

by Saadi Shirazi.

My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death,
That walks and speaks in seeming life around;
And I would love the corse without a breath,
That sleeps forgotten 'neath the cold, cold ground;
For these do tell the story of decay,
The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie;
But this, though dying too from day to day,
With a false show doth cheat the longing eye;
And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life,
With painted cheek and smooth deceitful skin;
Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife,
A secret cavern filled with death and sin;
And men walk o'er these graves and know it not,
For in the body's health the soul's forgot.

by Jones Very.

Forget Not Yet The Tried Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience in denays,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been and is
The mind that never meant amiss;
Forget not yet.

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this.

by David McKee Wright.

ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM

To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath
From some far forest which I once have known,
The perfume of this flower of verse is blown.
Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death,
Naught that with joy she bears e'er withereth.
So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown,
Lives come and gone and altered like mine own,
This poem comes to me a shibboleth:
Brings sound of past communings to my ear,
Turns round the tide of time and bears me back
Along an old and long untraversed way;
Makes me forget this is a later year,
Makes me tread o'er a reminiscent track,
Half sad, half glad, to one forgotten day!

by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Gill'Mont. À Mme R. Forget.

Cette villa qui brille au soleil, et dessine
Sur le fond vert des bois ses paradis rêvés,
Cette villa qui tient les regards captivés
Vous fait bien des jaloux, ma charmante cousine.

Pour orner ce palais féerique, vous avez,
Nous a-t-on dit, au fond de la forêt voisine,
Précieux talismans par hasard retrouvés,
Dérobé les secrets de quelque Mélusine.

On prétend, à l'appui, qu'autour du gai manoir,
Une baguette en main, sitôt que vient le soir,
Une femme apparaît de longs voiles coiffée ;

Mais, moi qui vous connais, je sais, même de loin,
Que pour charmer ainsi vous n'avez eu besoin
Du secours de personne, et que c'est vous, la fée !

by Louis Honoré Fréchette.

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

by Rabindranath Tagore.

Forget Not Yet: The Lover Beseecheth His Mistress Not To Forget His Steadfast Faith And True Intent

FORGET not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this!--
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss--
Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!

by Sir Thomas Wyatt.