Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Lost Days

Lost Days.

The lost days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as. they fell f Would they be ears of wheatSown once for food, but trodden into clay?Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheatThe throats of men in hell, who thirst alway?I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see,Each one a murdered self, with low lost breath: "I am thyself—what hast thou done to me?""And I—and I—thyself" (lo! each one saith), "And thou thyself to all eternity!"