Poems (Charlotte Allen)/The Past
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 tellOf 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.