Classic Poem

To conjure up old memories; to say,
“Do you remember that in such a June,
An orchand oriole sang us a tune
Melodiously from out a branching spray
Of leafy denseness; or on such a day
We saw the silver spectre of the moon
Long after dawn, and nearing unto noon,
A merest wraith of sickle gaunt and grey?”

These are love's echoes, faintly heard and fine
But ever-present, never dim nor mute,
That you and I in comradeship do share;
Sweet symphonies that breathe a sense divine
Like misty chords that linger by a lute,
Though all the silver strings are shattered there.