WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE

Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be

Were chatting over a cup of tea.

In tarnished finery smelling of must,

Was talked of people long turned to dust;

Of titles and honours and high estate,

All forgotten or out of date;

Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,

Of pride that perished with nothing to show.

“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan;

“I live in pleasures that I HAVE known.”

The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,

Looked over the head of musty Was,

And gazed far off into misty space

With a wrapt expression upon her face.

“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,

Such glory, such honour,” said Yet-to-be.

“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,

Of such successes as I shall win.

“The past, the present — why, what are they?

I live for the joy of a future day.”

Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,

Spoke up with a laugh, “I must confess

“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said,

“I never look back, and seldom ahead.

“Whatever has been, is a finished sum;

Whatever will be — why, let it come.

“To-day is mine. And so, you see,

I have the past and the yet-to-be;

“For to-day is the future of yesterday,

And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,

“And I think the secret of pleasure is this.

And this alone,” said practical Is.