08.07.2007, 10:17
Dead Memories
As when a son by his dead father kneels,
And cries, "Forgive me! Father, I repent!"
Those pallid lips make no acknowledgment,
Nor any smile across those features steals;
Yea, though he grasps his hand, the dead nor feels,
Nor moves, nor knows the form above him bent,
But now past all approval or dissent,
Turns a deaf ear to all that son's appeals:
So, too, with us, when tearfully we stand
Beside dead memories of the days which were;
Could we but grasp again that loving hand!
Could we but speak again to him or her!
In vain; as well expect at our command
The silent dead to smile again or stir.
As when a son by his dead father kneels,
And cries, "Forgive me! Father, I repent!"
Those pallid lips make no acknowledgment,
Nor any smile across those features steals;
Yea, though he grasps his hand, the dead nor feels,
Nor moves, nor knows the form above him bent,
But now past all approval or dissent,
Turns a deaf ear to all that son's appeals:
So, too, with us, when tearfully we stand
Beside dead memories of the days which were;
Could we but grasp again that loving hand!
Could we but speak again to him or her!
In vain; as well expect at our command
The silent dead to smile again or stir.