This poem was included in the original 1915 edition.
WE stand about this place--we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: "June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days." And all things are changed. And we--we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here. Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age; He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice! How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken, With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you. It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world. All is changed, save the river and the hill-- Even they are changed. Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same. And we--we, the memories, stand here in awe, Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears-- In immeasurable weariness
, about 1 month ago
This is a wonderful comment, Debora. Thank you!
We reserve the right to remove off-topic, inappropriate or markedly offensive comments. Although your e-mail address is required in case we need to contact you about your comment, we will not make your e-mail address visible to the public, share it with third parties, or use it to send unsolicited messages.
Debora , about 1 month ago
I think that this is the keystone of the entire Anthology, that these people are all forgotten by the world, and that they have been 'remembered' by the author. It goes on to explain how all life is fleeting, except the sun and stars, and how we will all be changed into memories in the end. Compared to the various pettinesses of the other 'important' persons in the Anthology, this young person (aged 21 yrs, 3 mo,) seems to have understood a bit more of life than the more aged ones. She despairs over her lost life with 'the weariness of tears'. Perhaps this is because she had more to lose than those who had lived longer. This is just an outstanding poem.