The lingering memories of Edith Conant speak from her graveside, dreading even to read the stone that marks her death at twenty-one. They are all that remain: her husband is dead, her sister far away, her father too old and forgetful to visit. No one living remembers her face or her voice, especially the piercingly sad song she sang on the morning she died, just before the birth of the child who died with her. The speaker feels invisible and utterly weary—forgotten, like the woman they mourn. The mood is hushed and desolate. Even the river and hill have changed; only the sun and stars stay the same. There is a sense that being forgotten is a second, quieter death, and the memories themselves are left standing in awe and exhaustion, holding grief no one else wants or remembers.
Edith Conant — Summary
We stand about this place—we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: “June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days.” And all things are changed. And we—we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here. Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age; He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice! How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken, With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you. It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world. All is changed, save the river and the hill— Even they are changed. Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same. And we—we, the memories, stand here in awe, Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears— In immeasurable weariness