Classic Poem

What are the unforgotten things, my heart?
In what guise do they come, in what strange way
Knock at the door, and enter in and stay,
Of our small hour the near, the poignant part? —
A sound, an odor, trick of sun and air;
Left from a song the little, sobbing note;
The yellow of a flower quick at the throat —
Of all our years, of all our tears a share.
No need for quest — they are forever nigh;
Out of the night, out of the noon they start;
Their steps do follow, follow through the grass;
Their hands touch ours, and eye looks into eye;
Outlasting years and tears, my heart, my heart! —
Broken into dust their ancient lovers pass.