Classic Poem

Who hides his memories digs graves,
But he who gives them light and air
The seeds and fruits of Autumn saves,
And makes perfumes when earth is bare.

Naught but these little specks of dust
To show where glowed the crimson rose?
And for the sap so fiercely thrust
Through trunk and stem, one apple grows?

Laid in the fastness of the mind,
They rot, or turn to pungent weeds;
But plant them in the soul and find
Of liveliness they are the seeds.

O memories dark and memories fair!
Grow in the garden of my soul,
Lest I God's straight design impair,
And give Him part who asks the whole.