THE PAST.

I 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Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.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 upon its beauty, and its dyes

Of Oriental splendor, 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 somber shades commingle, yet the gleam

Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,

While over all a fadeless luster lies,

And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,

My new robe shall be richer than the old.