Poems (Charlotte Allen)/The Past
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For works with similar titles, see The Past.
THE PAST.
The past appears but a dream;
I've mused on it over and o'er,
And as I reflect it doth seem
To puzzle my senses the more.
It came—it is gone—but where?
Not a vestige remains to tell
Of all those moments that were,
Save memory's fathomless well.
I've mused on it over and o'er,
And as I reflect it doth seem
To puzzle my senses the more.
It came—it is gone—but where?
Not a vestige remains to tell
Of all those moments that were,
Save memory's fathomless well.
There 's a shrine in every breast,
A niche called memory's bower;
The past is the only guest,
Remembrance the only flower.
Ever green is that little spot,
Unfading those flowers are;
And time can never blot,
Gems that lie treasured there.
A niche called memory's bower;
The past is the only guest,
Remembrance the only flower.
Ever green is that little spot,
Unfading those flowers are;
And time can never blot,
Gems that lie treasured there.