Past by BRET HARTE

Past dreams of bliss our lives contain,

And slight the chords that still retain

A heart estranged to joys again,

To scenes by memory's silver chain

Close-linked, and ever yet apart,

That like the vine, whose tendrils young

Around some fostering branch have clung,

Grown with its growth, as tho' it sprung

From one united heart.

BRET HARTE

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