Recessional

Consider me a memory⁠—a dream
That passed away,
Or yet, a flower that has blown and shattered⁠—
In a day;
For passion sleeps, alas, and keeps no vigil
With the years,
And wakens to no conjuring
Of orison or tears.

Consider me a melody
That served its simple turn,
Or but the residue of fire
That settles in the urn,
For love defies pure reasoning
And undeterred flows
Within⁠—without
The vassal heart!
Its reasoning⁠—
Who knows?