Memories
Poem
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.
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Listen
Read by Maite Jáuregui
Music
All Of My Life
Phil Collins
Image
Garden of the painter at Saint Clair, Henri-Edmond Cross
Courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
Courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York