Arlo Bates (1850–1918)

LIKE to a coin, passing from hand to hand,

Are common memories, and day by day

The sharpness of their impress wears away.

But love’s remembrances unspoiled withstand

The touch of time, as in an antique land

Where some proud town old centuries did slay,

Intaglios buried lie, still in decay

Perfect and precious spite of grinding sand.

What fame or joy or sorrow has been ours,

What we have hoped or feared, we may forget.

The clearness of all memory time deflours,

Save that of love alone, persistent yet

Though sure oblivion all things else devours,

Its tracings firm as when they first were set.