Classic Poem

There is a pity in forgotten things,
— Banished the heart they can no longer fill,
Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings,
— — — Must seek new pleasures still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot;
— They wait — they find the portal long unused;
And knocking there, it shall refuse them not, —
— — — Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years,
— In alien pledges spend the heart's estate,
They bide some blessed moment of quick tears —
— — — Some moment without date —

Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew,
— Some tremble at the ear of memoried sound
Of mother-song, — they seize the slender clew, —
— — — The old loves gather round!

When that which lured us once now lureth not,
— But the tired hands their garnered dross let fall,
This is the triumph of the things forgot —
— — — To hear the tired heart call!

And they are with us at Life's farthest reach,
— A light when into shadow all else dips,
As, in the stranger's land, their native speech
— — — Returns to dying lips!