The Past

In her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth

The faded jewels of an earlier time;

An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth--

The purple of her robe is past its prime.

Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth

The flower-wreath woven by pale Memory's fingers.

Her heart is withered--yet it strangely shineth

In its lone urn, a light that fitful lingers.

With her low, muffled voice of mystery,

She reads old legends from Time's mouldering pages;

She telleth the Present the recorded history

And change perpetual of bygone ages:

Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod

Once ours, but now by naught but Memory's footsteps trod.