Poetry and Memory

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.

Blessings on thee, little man;
Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan.
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes.

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands.
The smith, a mighty man is he
With strong and sinewy hands.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

The above are just about all that I can recall regarding poetry that I studied long ago in school. The poems are on the Internet, now, and I looked up a couple of them to become acquainted with them again.

I am not a poem-y person. I never took much to poetry, preferring to write prose. Some poetry I don’t understand (I also don’t understand works of art, for the most part). However, some of what Mr. Wells tried to teach us in 8^th grade, and what other teachers tried to instill into us in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s has stuck in the form of snippets of poetry such as what is above.

I am much more amazed at the working and capacity of the human brain to retain such snippets for years on end than I am of poetry itself. To think that these kinds of things have been stored somewhere in the recesses of an approximately 3.5 lb blob of tissue (which, by the way, is capable of performing 100 trillion calculations per second, according to Wiki) for fifty or so years is just remarkable in many ways.

Surely, you too know the above poems and the authors. Don’t you?