The pains of yesterday,
The toilous parting from joy,
Were only a day long spent,
And yet, despite time’s fickle
Truth,
Yesterday was a year to me,
And the year was an age.
This wrinkle of age formed
At one cycle of the hand,
But speaks of a weak heart,
Impatient and poor.
Yet yesterday is just that,
A memory and a jest;
For it has passed
Into the light of day,
Bright present day,
And a glorious reception.
The gift the past gives
Lives in the truest nature
Of myself,
Both deep and manifest.
