Chapter IX

The past is like an empty dream;
The people in it are not real;
The joys and sorrows only seem
As phantom hands I cannot feel.

I will not even count the hours,
That lie between those yesterdays
And what my present life embowers,
Of love and all its golden ways.

All that I am, my soul, my mind,
And all I ever hope to be
I fling, with scarce a look behind
Into this present ecstasy.

I have not even one regret
To waste upon those lagging years,
Too colourless to feign forget,
Too soulless for repentant tears.

No sigh, though life should end for me
To-day; so potent is the bliss
Of love, I think eternity
Is held embodied in a kiss.