To Memory

Oh in this dearth and winter of the soul, When even Hope, still wont to soar and sing, Droopeth, a starveling bird whose downy wing Stiffens ere dead through the dank drift it fall-- Yea, ere Hope perish utterly, I call On thee, fond Memory, that thou haste and bring One leaf, one blossom from that far-off spring When love's auroral light lay over all. Bring but one pansy: haply so the thrill Of poignant yearning for those glad dead years May, like the gusty south, breathe o'er the chill Of frozen grief, dissolving it in tears, Till numb Hope, stirred by that warm dropping rain, Will deem, perchance, Love's springtide come again.