The past, alas! is but a dream,
A fading shadow, vague and dim;
A vision that our eyes may seem
To see, but cannot grasp or limn.

The past, alas! is but a sigh,
A mournful echo, far and lone;
A voice that seems to sob and cry,
But dies upon the ear alone.

The past, alas! is but a tear,
A falling drop of anguished pain;
A burning tear that sears and sears,
And leaves a scar that never wane.

The past, alas! is but a dream,
A shadow, sigh, a tear, a wail;
A thing that is, and yet is not,
A thing that mocks us with its frail.

The past, alas! is but a thing
That haunts us with its vague unrest;
A thing that we may never cling
To, though we long to do our best.

The past, alas! is but a thing
That we must leave, and let it go;
A thing that we must try to fling
Behind us, and forget, and so

To live our lives, and do our best,
And make the future what it may;
And hope that, when our day is past,
We may not have to weep and say:

"The past, alas! was but a dream,
A shadow, sigh, a tear, a wail;
A thing that mocked us with its frail,
And left us with its bitter wail."

JPGM