by Eric Rosenbloom
copyright 1999

All that was dear to me that I have lost
Would fill a hall were memory so strong
To catalog their name and form and cost
And who if not myself had done the wrong—
Remembrance, though, like time, is not so long
And not compelled — the soul has other needs,
And thrives amidst regret in sweeter song:
What sense has known of love it hoards like seeds
That grow and blossom where the mind's eye reads.

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