78
Not Understood
[1]OLD LETTERS.
WHAT stories of the vanished time those dear old letters bring;
They strike the chords of memory that round the heart’s core cling.
These whisper softly in our ears of forms and faces fled;
They summon back the distant ones, and conjure up the dead;
They fan the smouldering flame of thought that slumbers in the brain;
They preach a plaintive sermon, and they chant a sad refrain.
They strike the chords of memory that round the heart’s core cling.
These whisper softly in our ears of forms and faces fled;
They summon back the distant ones, and conjure up the dead;
They fan the smouldering flame of thought that slumbers in the brain;
They preach a plaintive sermon, and they chant a sad refrain.
With trembling hands and beating hearts we ope those letters old;
A little history is hid within each crumpled fold.
They tell of love, they tell of grief, perchance they tell of shame,
And oft they call a heart’s pearl up to bathe some cherished name.
And sometimes too they bring us back deceit in friendship’s guise:
The shallow thing that comes in spring, and in the winter dies.
A little history is hid within each crumpled fold.
They tell of love, they tell of grief, perchance they tell of shame,
And oft they call a heart’s pearl up to bathe some cherished name.
And sometimes too they bring us back deceit in friendship’s guise:
The shallow thing that comes in spring, and in the winter dies.
- ↑ This poem was first published in 1868, since which time several effusions have appeared under the same name, and expressing the same ideas.
