POETRY.
THE LOVE OF THE PAST.
As sailors watch from their prison For the long, grey line of the coasts, I look to the past rearisen, And joys come over in hosts Like the white sea-birds from their roosts.
I love not th' indelicate present, The future's unknown to our quest, To-day is the life of the peasant, But the past is a haven of rest,— The joy of the past is the hest.
The rose of the past is better Than the rose we ravish to-day ; 'Tis holier, purer, and fitter To place on the shrine where we pray,— • For the secret thoughts we obey.
There, are no deceptions nor changes, There, all is placid and still; No grief, nor fate that estranges, Nor hope that no life can fulfil; But ethereal shelter from ill.
The coarser delights of the hour Tempt, and debauch and deprave; And we joy in a poisonous flower, Knowing that nothing can save Our flesh from the fate of the grave.
But surely we leave them, returning, In grief to the well-loved nest, Filled with an infinite yearning,
Knowing the past to be rest,—
That the things of the past are the best.
GEORGE MOORE.
Previous page
