TO-DAY
IS there but emptiness from sky to sky; A hollow where we pass, Along the simple grass? Stirs not some intimate foot as we draw nigh? Or is To-Day grown but a lantern light, That throws at the dark's edge, Upon some village hedge, A petty red then dwindles into night?
The House decays, but in the April rain, Long after, where it stood, Betwixt the sea and wood, Purple as yore, its violets remain. Long after, hoarded in the ancestral town, The new folk find it there, In carvèd shelf or chair, Or candlesticks whose gilt is turning brown.
Thus is it with our Pasts; they go; they stay; They go, yet leave behind, Some wealth, dear, starry, kind, For common folk to gather day by day: