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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