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?