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Memories do not rest

Strange how so many things Can bring you back to me. A wild trail, a rose, a tree Stirs a [sic] old memory. In the white despair of Winter. Or in the heart of June - I remember you, I may find you even in a popular tune. There may be summer birds or perhaps when they have fled. There may be rambling roses, Or when they all are dead. if I were wise I would forget, if I were calm and wise - But I am ever disturbed by recalling Your dark and flashing eyes.

   --Estella Davis taylor.

I like this except I think the last two lines spoil it some way. I would have ended it by "your sweet and gentle eyes" For I think of Mama when I read it she loved the woods, the trips through the fields to Grandmas, wild roses, etc. if old pip had never moved on the scene!