The Triumph of Forgotten Things

There is a pity in forgotten things,
Banished the heart they can no longer fill,
Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings,
Must seek new pleasure still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot;
They wait — they find the portal long unused;
And knocking there, it shall refuse them not, —
Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years,
In alien pledges spend the heart's estate,
They bide some blessed moment of quick tears —
Some moment without date —

Some gleam on flower, or leaf, or beaded dew,
Some tremble at the ear of memoried sound
Of mother-song, — they seize the slender clew, —
The old loves gather round!

When that which lured us once now lureth not,
But the tired hands their gathered dross let fall,
This is the triumph of the things forgot —
To hear the tired heart call!

And they are with us at Life's farthest reach,
A light when into shadow all else dips,
As, in the stranger's land, their native speech
Returns to dying lips!