Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
  And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
  Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
  Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
  From earth, and air, and sky;

That I might simply fancy there
One little flower -- a primrose fair,
  Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
  A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee,
  Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
  The glory of the spring.

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
  My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
  With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
  And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
  Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
  That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
  Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
  That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
  Though long ago they passed.

Acton

Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)
 
129 Views

Anne Brontë

Anne Brontë was a British novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family. more…

All Anne Brontë poems | Anne Brontë Books

FAVORITE (2 fans)

Translation

Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Español (Spanish)
  • Esperanto (Esperanto)
  • 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Português (Portuguese)
  • Deutsch (German)
  • العربية (Arabic)
  • Français (French)
  • Русский (Russian)
  • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • 한국어 (Korean)
  • עברית (Hebrew)
  • Український (Ukrainian)
  • اردو (Urdu)
  • Magyar (Hungarian)
  • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italiano (Italian)
  • தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Türkçe (Turkish)
  • తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Čeština (Czech)
  • Polski (Polish)
  • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Românește (Romanian)
  • Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latinum (Latin)
  • Svenska (Swedish)
  • Dansk (Danish)
  • Suomi (Finnish)
  • فارسی (Persian)
  • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English (English)

Discuss this Anne Brontë poem with the community:

Citation

Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

Style:MLAChicagoAPA

"Memory" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 2 Jul 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/3153/memory>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Our favorite collection of

Famous Poets

»

Our awesome collection of

Promoted Poems

»

Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.