Poems (Clark)/My Past
MY PAST
All yesterday I was carving A stone for the buried Past,That should serve as reminder, and token Of beauties that did not last.I scarcely paused at my labor, Unheeding the restless smart,That I thought was only memory, Whispering close to my heart.
And only when earth and heaven Were bright with the setting sun,Did I lay down chisel and hammer, And feel that my task was done.All through the night's long stillness, I watched by my dead Past's grave,Hearing from Time's deep ocean The murmur of many a wave.
I counted the hours as they vanished, And said when the morn should gleam,I would take up the cross I had chiselled With many a heart-kept dream;And place it there as a headstone, That should tell where my Past was at rest,Then say one farewell, and departing, Fold the Present, as friend, to my breast.
But I found my cross with its carvings, Had its counterpart hid in my heart,Where memory, copying my labors, Had cut deep with wearying smart.So what could I do but to gather My past once more to my breast,And deep in my heart's hidden chambers, Under memory's cross let her rest.
It were better I took her with me, Than to linger beside her grave;I had loved her very fondly, And loved, too, the gifts she gave.So now I shall keep her with me,— My dead and beautiful Past;—And whatever my Present and Future, She is mine, while life shall last.