Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;
Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.
“I loathe the present,” said Was, with a groan;
“I live in pleasures that I have known.”
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,
And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon her face.
“Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory, such honour,” said Yet-to-be.
“No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,
Of such successes as I shall win.
“The past, the present—why, what are they?
I live for the joy of a future day.”
Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress,
Spoke up with a laugh, “I must confess
“I find to-day so pleasant,” she said,
“I never look back, and seldom ahead.
“Whatever has been, is a finished sum;
Whatever will be—why, let it come.
“To-day is mine. And so, you see,
I have the past and the yet-to-be;
“For to-day is the future of yesterday,
And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,
“And I think the secret of pleasure is this.
And this alone,” said practical Is.