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YOUR memory is like a book we love,
And which our face is ever bent above;
Our heart read into it the nobler seems,
And all our soul is rich with longing dreams.


The impossible I covet: I would dare
Lock into verse the odour of your hair;
Chisel with goldsmith's patient art the word
Trembling upon your lips and yet unheard;
Prison these waves of tenderness that roll
When your dear voice whips tempests in my soul;
And sing immortally the maddening billows
Tossed in that gulf of breasts that are my pillows;
Say in your eyes what sweets of coolness hide,
Like forest afternoons of autumn-tide;
Enshrine the relic of our dearest hour;
And on piano-keys bring back to flower,
Some melancholy eve when memories rise,
The sacred kiss perfuming still your eyes.