Should joy abide a solitary pleasure stilled?
Will any longing remain past recollected hope unfilled?
What is the sum of things forgotten that my mem'ry's exorcised?
How shall I arrange what's put away or treasure life's demised?
I myself do unanswered query of opportunity's lost claim,
I sit and wait the gods to make some philosophical reply,
instead, the reel of images replays on mental screen the same,
and casts upon my mind a looping retrospect that ne'er will tell me why.
But such a search, I suppose, the missing to recover,
attempts to unearth gold where only bones are buried,
and might its riches better find in tombs of every lover,
where to, ensconced in death's repose, for reminiscing's carried.
So it is that I must face the past by fixing sights ahead,
and trouble not for reasons the dying or the dead,
but know what presently my hands do grasp and grip,
will yet continue in my soul when to the shadows slip.