Memory
The needle-clock that pokes holes in the mind,
Whereby a pan of half-remembered past
Is sieved, and thus from memory confined,
Faileth against some fragments sticking fast.
The gripsack-brain is packed with brittle tinder,
For memories once lit do warm the soul.
Whenas old age shall dwindle blaze to cinder,
Though 'twill be hard to recollect them whole,
Being too truncated by the racing sword
Of time, so that they might even feel untrue,
We nonetheless will remain meet to ford
The dreamy stream of earlier days anew.
Though many memories will leave our sight,
Yet in the rearguard some won't take their flight.
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