55767: The Word

<p dir="ltr"> There are so many things I have forgot,<br> That once were much to me, or that were not,<br> All lost, as is a childless woman's child<br> And its child's children, in the undefiled<br> Abyss of what will never be again.<br> I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men<br> That fought and lost or won in the old wars,<br> Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.<br> Some things I have forgot that I forget.<br> But lesser things there are, remembered yet,<br> Than all the others. One name that I have not---<br> Though 'tis an empty thingless name---forgot<br> Never can die because Spring after Spring<br> Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.<br> There is always one at midday saying it clear<br> And tart---the name, only the name I hear.<br> While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent<br> That is like food; or while I am content<br> With the wild rose scent that is like memory,<br> This name suddenly is cried out to me<br> From somewhere in the bushes by a bird<br> Over and over again, a pure thrush word.<br></p>