LIKE to a coin, passing from hand to hand,
Are common memories, and day by day
The sharpness of their impress wears away.
But loves remembrances unspoiled with-stand
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.
Like to a Coin
written byArlo Bates
© Arlo Bates