Memories

WISTFUL and strange and sweet,
What memories are these that gather round my feet?
There are at the graying end of day
They sit in serious conclave and array,
Or sometimes from the gloom
They start and scamper in my room
And climb on sudden trails of a regretful scent
Up to my breast and arms and hair
And murmuring nestle there.
So soft they are and young and wild
My heart breaks at their tugging mild.