~ Remembrance ~


And sometime when I have become

A quiet portrait on a wall,

Will you, my fair descendant,

Stop to think of me at all?


Suppose your hands are shaped like mine,

You have my “Nutmeg” sense of fun:

Will there be one to tell you so,

There, when my days are done?


If you love books, and fires, and songs,

And silvery moons in star-studded skies,

Then toss me a look of shared delight

From those, my own blue eyes;


For there is kinship in a curl,

And keepsakes in a spoken name,

And wine of life may yet be poured,

By hands, within a frame.

Arthur unknown