To Memory

Strange Power, I know not what thou art,
Murderer or mistress of my heart.
I know I'd rather meet the blow
Of my most unrelenting foe
Than live---as now I live---to be
Slain twenty times a day by thee.

Yet, when I would command thee hence,
Thou mockest at the vain pretence,
Murmuring in mine ear a song
Once loved, alas! forgotten long;
And on my brow I feel a kiss
That I would rather die than miss.

by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

Other poems of COLERIDGE (31)

Comments (2)

Love can be an unwelcome power in our lives, sometimes to the extent that it is abusive, perhaps physically abusive. Interesting and complex piece and an interesting complex woman.
'And on my brow I feel a kiss, that I would rather die than miss.' -Splendid Memory!