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William Wordsworth - Memory
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A pen—to register; a key— 
That winds through secret wards 
Are well assigned to Memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 
A Pencil to her hand; 
That, softening objects, sometimes even 
Outstrips the heart`s demand; 

That smooths foregone distress, the lines 
Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 
And clothes in brighter hues; 

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast, 
In purity were such, 
That not an image of the past 
Should fear that pencil`s touch! 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene, 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
In frosty moonlight glistening; 
Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
Along a channel smooth and deep, 
To their own far-off murmurs listening.
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