Memory

A treasured link of shining pearls,
    A by-gone melody,
A shower of tears with smiles between--
    And this is memory.
A thing so light a breath of air
    May waft its life away;
A thing so dark that moments of pain
    Seem like some endless day.

A careless word may wound the heart,
    And quickly it may die;
Yet in the seas of memory
    Forever it will lie.
And sometimes when the tide rolls back
    Its waves of joy and pain,
That careless word, though long forgot,
    Will wound the heart again.

The restless seas of memory
    Are vast and deep and wide;
And every deed that we can know
    Sleeps in that tireless tide.
Upon the thoughtless lives of men
    Its waves in mockery roll;
And sweep a might of bitter pain
    Across each human soul.

And few can stand upon the sands
    Beside this boundless sea,
And say with calm unfaltering voice
    "It has no grief for me."
The passing wave may bear away
    Our deeds and words untrue;
Yet surely as the tide comes in
    The wrecks will follow too.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick was an American poet of the 19th century. Not much is known about her early life, but her poetry was well-regarded and she became known for her emotional and heartfelt verses. She contributed to various periodicals and was part of the literary scene of her time. Her works often focused on themes of love, nature, and the human experience. Despite her contributions, detailed biographical information about Sherrick remains sparse.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

A Shell.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick, Simple Poetry

Moonlight.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick, Simple Poetry

October.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick, Simple Poetry

My Queen.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Memory.

Amid my treasures once I found
    A simple faded flower;
A flower with all its beauty fled,
    The darling of an hour.

With bitterness I gazed awhile,
    Then flung it from my sight;
For with it all came back to me
    the pain and heedless blight.

But, moved with pity and regret
    I took it up again;
For oh, so long and wearily
    In darkness it had lain.

Ah, purple pansy, once I kissed
    Your dewy petals fair;
For then, indeed, I had no thought
    Of earthly pain or care.

Your faded petals now I touch
    With sacred love and awe;
For never will my heart kneel down
    To earthly will or law.

Your velvet beauty still is dear,
    Though faded now you seem;
You drooped and died, yet still yo...

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Memory's River

In Nature's bright blossoms not always reposes
    That strange subtle essence more rare than their bloom,
Which lies in the hearts of carnations and roses,
    That unexplained something by men called perfume.
Though modest the flower, yet great is its power
    And pregnant with meaning each pistil and leaf,
If only it hides there, if only abides there,
    The fragrance suggestive of love, joy, and grief.

Not always the air that a master composes
    Can stir human heart-strings with pleasure or pain.
But strange, subtle chords, like the scent of the roses,
    Breathe out of some measures, though simple the strain.
And lo! when you hear them, you love them and fear them,
    You tremble with anguish, you thrill with delight,
For back of them slumber old dreams...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Remembrance.

Why should we dream of days gone by?
    Why should we wait and wonder?
Sweet summer days have come and gone,
    The leaves are falling yonder.

The wee sweet flowers we loved the best,
    The king of frost has chosen;
And now the sun looks sadly down
    Upon his darlings frozen.

Ah! summer sun and autumn frost,
    You are at war forever;
For all the ties that one would make
    The other fain would sever.

With autumn days remembrance comes
    Of golden glories fleeting;
Of pleasures gone and sorrows come--
    Of parting and of meeting.

Oh! summer days, why haunt us still?
    Remembrance is a sorrow;
And all the dreams we dream to-day
    Will fade upon the morrow.

Each life has some sweet summer-time,

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Memoria In Æterna.

Sweet Memory! thou faculty divine--
Triumphant o'er the cruel hand of Time!
On thy tablets we may trace
The lines his fingers ne'er efface,
And take with us till latest day
The images that light our way,
And picture thus in a shadowy form
The loved and lost he's from us torn--
Their lids by Death so early sealed--
Life's crimson tide by him congealed--
The tyrant has not all concealed--
They in thy mirror still revealed!

Before the morning sunbeams kissed
The face of Nature--veiled in mist--
And heralded with golden ray
The opening of the perfect day--
Ere yet the sable shades of night
At dawn's approach had winged their flight--
We've listed to the whispering breeze
That's wafted o'er the trembling trees,
And seemed to hear the voice...

George W. Doneghy

Memory

In silence and in darkness memory wakes
Her million sheathèd buds, and breaks
That day-long winter when the light and noise
And hard bleak breath of the outward-looking will
Made barren her tender soil, when every voice
Of her million airy birds was muffled or still.

One bud-sheath breaks:
One sudden voice awakes.

What change grew in our hearts, seeing one night
That moth-winged ship drifting across the bay,
    Her broad sail dimly white
On cloudy waters and hills as vague as they?
Some new thing touched our spirits with distant delight,
Half-seen, half-noticed, as we loitered down,
Talking in whispers, to the little town,
    Down from the narrow hill
    Talking in whispers, for the air so still
Imposed its stillness on our lips, and made

Edward Shanks

Memory

The mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory: she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, calld or uncalld.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only w...

Walter Savage Landor