Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Comments (2)

Pleasures like flowers may may wither and decay but roots perinatal may stay. Beautiful portrait!
A wonderful portrayal of one of the aspects of human nature that deals with memories relating to men long forgotten. The analogy of those memories with old graves with features that have turned nondescript over a period of time is unique. Reading this poem might make one sad but it leads him to a realization of some of life's harsh realities.