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.