THE PAST is flowing through my thoughts—
Flowing like a sea;
With all its billows dancing bright
Over what?—an undermight
Of darkling loss and destiny.
Still it floweth through my thoughts—
Floweth like a sea;
While of worn hope I ask alway,
Like an unsought cast-astray—
What can the future bring to me?
And hope herself admits: To thee
But a darkening scene—
Only slow days of care and doubt,
Only a dreary lengthening out,
Of what this later past hath been.
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