The Past

The domain of the things that are foregone Is a wild cemetery, a huge burial stretch , For the dry thoughts and memoirs - all Enlivening with hope, as great or small Forming and shaping an upstart or a wretch And cheering anew with every next dawn . Like blurred slides ,scenes glide and move ; And dewy cold, yet fresh brewing sensation Prevails along the line of reminiscence smug; And heavy frozen events are reluctantly dug Out of the sad grave to re-form the notion In cloudy symbols and faded colours a few, The whole past seems as it were to ruffle And turn into a revolting lot to bring out A settled, confident self, ready for change ; Time may cause to encounter things strange , Painful, uneasy , prompting a safe rout : Never to give up, but to go on with the scuffle