Tuesday, January 22, 2013

ars poetica


The ghosts that come from out the years,
Dream-winged and purged of passion's fears,
Troop round me now as oft before,
In love to lead my footsteps o'er
The paths my heart of heart endears.


What hope-wreathed joy on joy appears,
What bloomy cheeks no anguish sears,
What vasty skies wherein to soar,
O time of old!


Their voices die upon mine ears,
I cry to them, but no one hears,
While other ghosts around me pour--
The ghosts of Now that madly roar,
And mock my unrelieving tears,
O time of old!


~Edward Robeson Taylor (1838-1923)