Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | January 14, 2009


by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861 – 1907).


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                                  5

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;                                10

And on my brow I feel a kiss

That I would rather die than miss.



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