To Memory

 Strange Power, I know not what thou art, 
Murderer or mistress of my heart.
 
I know I'd rather meet the blow 
Of my most unrelenting foe 
Than live---as now I live---to be 
Slain twenty times a day by thee.
 

Yet, when I would command thee hence, 
Thou mockest at the vain pretence, 
Murmuring in mine ear a song 
Once loved, alas! forgotten long; 
And on my brow I feel a kiss 
That I would rather die than miss.

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