A MEMORY

By Helen Gray Cone

Though pent in stony streets,‘ tis joy to know,

‘ Tis joy, although we breathe a fainter air,

The spirit of those places far and fair

That we have loved, abides; and fern-scents flow

Out of the wood's heart still, and shadows grow

Long on remembered roads as warm days wear;

And still the dark wild water, in its lair,

The narrow chasm, stirs blindly to and fro.

Delight is in the sea-gull's dancing wings,

And sunshine wakes to rose the ruddy hue

Of rocks; and from her tall wind-slanted stem

A soft bright plume the goldenrod outflings

Along the breeze, above a sea whose blue

Is like the light that kindles through a gem.