Joys of Memory

   When the spring comes round, and a certain day
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
          And says, Remember,
     I begin again, as if it were new,
     A day of like date I once lived through,
     Whiling it hour by hour away;
          So shall I do till my December,
               When spring comes round.

   I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me,
          Old hours re-greeting
     With the quiet sense that bring they must
     Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,
     And in the numbness my heartsome zest
          For things that were, be past repeating
               When spring comes round.

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