To Memory
by Mary Coleridge
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 I live now -- to be
Slain twenty times a day by thee
Yet, when I would command thee hence,
Thou mockest at the vain pretence,
Murmuring in my ear a song
Once loved, alas! forgotten long;
And on my brow I feel a kiss
That I would rather die than miss
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September
by Mary Coleridge
Now every day the bracken browner grows,
Even the purple stars
Of clematis, that shone about the bars,
Grow browner; and the little autumn rose
Dons, for her rosy gown,
Sad weeds of brown.
Now falls the eve; and ere the morning sun,
Many a flower her sweet life will have lost,
Slain by the bitter frost,
Who slays the butterflies also, one by one,
The tiny beasts
That go about their business and their feasts.
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