The Past

   Fling my past behind me, like a robe

   Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.

   I have outgrown it.  Wherefore should I weep

   And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes

   Of Oriental splendour, or complain

   That I must needs discard it?  I can weave

   Upon the shuttles of the future years

   A fabric far more durable.  Subdued,

   It may be, in the blending of its hues,

   Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam

   Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,

   While over all a fadeless lustre lies,

   And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,

   My new robe shall be richer than the old.

                                                                                            by E W Wilcox