Old Memories

What olden memories are these that throng
To greet me on the threshold of this day, —
Of buried hours what melancholy array?
Dull, now, the eyes that once were clear and strong,
Their lips but whisper that once thrilled with song;
Their grave-clothes are upon them, and they say:
"Know'st thou us still, and by what winding way
We led thy steps; nor did that path seem long?"

Yea, verily, I know ye but too well:
Your loving kindness once indeed was sweet,
Your deep joy subtler than a man may tell; —
But why, with hearts that can no longer beat.
Why come ye back, and weave the olden spell
To daze my senses and perplex my feet?