That you are poor, that I grow old, It matters not. Our battles hold. The lovely, undisturbèd things Are left for our rememberings. Kings' houses; graves out on the downs; Shop windows in great ancient towns; The rooks tossed up the rosy sky Out of the vicarage garden high; The minster tower poignant with years That shook the dusk as though with tears. Scraps of old music dewy-clear Haunt us each turning of the year; When fields are coloured like a stone, A thought of April can atone; Of cowslip flowers golden small Under a windy village wall. That you are poor, and I grow old! But memories keep; but battles hold:— The footspace snatched from quaking mire; From dying dreams the undying fire; And when we trod the perilous land, The god all ready to our hand. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOROTHY'S DOWER by PHOEBE CARY THE TRAGEDY OF VALENTINIAN: THE POWER OF LOVE by JOHN FLETCHER LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS by JAMES HOGG ROUGE BOUQUET [MARCH 7, 1918] by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER CONFLICT AND PEACE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CURIOUSLY EVANESCENT by EVA K. ANGLESBURG |