Was, Is, And Yet-To-Be

Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be Were chatting over a cup of tea.

In tarnished finery smelling of must, Was talked of people long turned to dust;

Of titles and honours and high estate, All forgotten or out of date;

Of wonderful feasts in the long ago, Of pride that perished with nothing to show.

“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan; “I live in pleasures that I have known.”

The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze, Looked over the head of musty Was,

And gazed far off into misty space With a wrapt expression upon her face.

“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me, Such glory, such honour,” said Yet-to-be.

“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been, Of such successes as I shall win.

“The past, the present—why, what are they? I live for the joy of a future day.”

Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress, Spoke up with a laugh, “I must confess

“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said, “I never look back, and seldom ahead.

“Whatever has been, is a finished sum; Whatever will be—why, let it come.

“To-day is mine. And so, you see, I have the past and the yet-to-be;

“For to-day is the future of yesterday, And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,

“And I think the secret of pleasure is this. And this alone,” said practical Is.