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

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;

And on my brow I feel a kiss

That I would rather die than miss