A poem by Emily Bronte

Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion--
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?


This is public domain
Su Dongpo (1037-1101)
Remembrance

To what can our life on earth be likened? 
            To a flock of geese, 
            alighting on the snow. 
Sometimes leaving a trace of their passage. 
Wintersweet's note: If I'd read the poem without the poet's name, I'd have guessed it was Japanese. This sort of meditative consideration of transience was much more popular in Japanese poetry.
i found some papers the other day
at the end of a book, hidden secret away
from all of the prying eyes.

they were ripped out as they were a part of the past
and now they lie in the garbage, waiting for me to retrieve them,
some sad and lonely reminder of the past,
or throw them out for good.
or let someone else find them, these words I wrote what seems like so long
ago.

and then I laid there in bed, the hot air surrounding me as it did an eternity
of summers ago
the quiet hum outside like that of the air conditioner,
in a small room,
in another world.

and I cried.

those silent tears we all cry on the inside.
again.

and all I could see in my head was the vision of the papers with their long
scrawls of words flowing across virgin white sheets of paper, lying there in
the garbage, cast aside yet so accessible.

the wishes on words on paper, a silent cry to the gods to have mercy on me
this one time, to make all my

my what

past wrongs? not really
past foolishness? not then
past lack I guess

past lacking made right and to let me have all that I wanted. a cry to the
gods. maybe they answered. maybe not. maybe in more ways than one. yet
these cries of absolute direction still murmur back to me again and again
through the rocky night, the hot night, the air conditioner not here. not
here not ever. not fucking ever.

yet my skin is still wet with the humid heat of this cursed night, and my
brain still afire with these cursed thoughts. and all I do is forget and
forget and erase again and again. but the marks on the paper don't fade.
nor the glasses. dusty maybe, but never gone.

and I'd kill anyone who opened them. some things are meant to be left alone.
aren't they? left alone in the cubourd out of arms reach, back up on the
highest shelf where no one can see them or find them or turn a page someday
and find

scrawls.

the computer hum like the cooling machine, the humid night just the same, the
thunder crash outside like I did. but it goes on. and I. and maybe the
papers will go or stay, in a silent shelf in an envelope for when those I see
I remember thee.

and I read those words in my mind, not those ones, the others, and I do. the
young the old, the still young.

the knowing. and I wish for that age.

and I pray that the papers will be gone by morn.

7.11.2000

Reprinted with permission from me.

Re*mem"brance (-brans), n. [OF. remembrance.]

1.

The act of remembering; a holding in mind, or bringing to mind; recollection.

Lest fierce remembrance wake my sudden rage. Milton.

Lest the remembrance of his grief should fail. Addison.

2.

The state of being remembered, or held in mind; memory; recollection.

This, ever grateful, in remembrance bear. Pope.

3.

Something remembered; a person or thing kept in memory.

Shak.

4.

That which serves to keep in or bring to mind; a memorial; a token; a memento; a souvenir; a memorandum or note of something to be remembered.

And on his breast a bloody cross he bore, The dear remembrance of his dying Lord. Spenser.

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. Shak.

5.

Something to be remembered; counsel; admonion; instruction.

[Obs.]

Shak.

6.

Power of remembering; reach of personal knowledge; period over which one's memory extends.

Thee I have heard relating what was done Ere my remembrance. Milton.

Syn. -- Recollection; reminiscence. See Memory.

 

© Webster 1913.

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