Chapter XXVII

How yesterday is long ago! The past Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day, And bygone things, the first-lived as the last, In irreparable sameness far away. How the to-be is infinitely ever Out of the place wherein it will be Now, Like the seen wave yet far up in the river, Which reaches not us, but the new-waved flow! This thing Time is, whose being is having none, The equable tyrant of our different fates, Who could not be bought off by a shattered sun Or tricked by new use of our careful dates. This thing Time is, that to the grave-will bear My heart, sure but of it and of my fear.