“We are such stuff as dreams are made of.”
I
We have forgot what we have been,
And what we are we little know;
We fancy new events begin
But all has happened long ago.
II
Before mine infant eyes had hailed
The new-born glory of the day,
When the first wondrous morn unveiled
The breathing world that round me lay;
The same strange darkness o’er my brain
Folded its close, mysterious wings,
The ignorance of joy or pain,
That each recurring midnight brings.
III
Full oft my feelings make me start,
Like foot prints on a desert shore,
As if the chambers of my heart
Had heard their shadowy step before.
So looking into thy fond eyes,
Strange memories come to me, as though
Somewhere—perchance in Paradise—
I had adored thee long ago.
Thomas W. Parsons.