When Memory Comes

When memory comes, and lays within my hands
Its treasures of the past, I wonder such could be.
Did I do that and this? Were these from me?
With some of effort I recall the faint times sweet,
And barely picture where I stood or sat
And wrote with listening eyes of this and that.
Then too, sometimes, liquid bells appear—
Perfect lyrics, joys to say and hear,
And these I know full well, and I am proud.
Then back into the box they go again—
To start me up, with motor running loud.
For beauty’s wings wait songs of beauty’s fire;
They hover o’er my head and heart and hand
Like Icarus daring, but to ne’er expire.

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