Memory’s Spirit

Moving soft through shadows grey,

A figure wends its steadfast way,

Through busy streets and markets bright,

And alleys dark that wait for night;

Yet nothing halts the spectre’s path,

Nor slows or wearies it at last.

Upon the busy world, its eyes,

That shine with light of brightest skies,

Glance to and fro, as on its way

It wafts along a thousand days;

A thousand streets to walk upon,

A thousand tales beneath the sun.

Such myths and stories great has seen

This spirit soft with eyes so keen,

And kept in ancient memory vast

The legends of a world now past,

Which mortal men too soon forget,

From whence they came, and what comes yet.

And so the spectre presses on,

In the shadows, in the sun,

Until, perchance, it finds a soul

Of depth as oceans, heart as gold;

And then, perhaps, the torch will pass,

And mem’ry’s spirit rest at last.