The Last Memory

When I am old, and think of the old days,

And warm my hands before a little blaze,

Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire,

I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire,

One face, mysterious and exquisite;

And I shall gaze, and ponder over it,

Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought

That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought

Burns inward a revealing flame, and glows

To the last ecstasy, which is repose?

Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes?

And, musing thus among my memories,

O unforgotten! you will come to seem,

As pictures do, remembered, some odd dream.

And I shall think of you as something strange,

And beautiful, and full of helpless change,

Which I beheld and carried in my heart;

But you, I loved, will have become a part

Of the eternal mystery, and love

Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above

My little fire, and shiver, being cold,

When you are no more young, and I am old.