I STILL keep open Memory's chamber: still Drink from the fount of Youth's perennial stream. It may be in old age an idle dream Of those dear children; but beyond my will They come again, and dead affections thrill My pulseless heart, for now once more they seem To be alive, and wayward fancies teem In my fond brain, and all my senses fill. Come, Alice, leave your books; 't is I who call; Bind up your hair, and teasing -- did you say Kissing -- that kitten? Evey, come with me; Mary, grave darling, take my hand: yes, all! I have three hands to-day! A Holiday. A Holiday, Papa? Woe's me! 't is Memory! |