The past is like a story <br />I have listened to in dreams <br />That vanished in the glory <br />Of the Morning's early gleams; <br />And--at my shadow glancing-- <br />I feel a loss of strength, <br />As the Day of Life advancing <br />Leaves it shorn of half its length. <br /> <br />But it's all in vain to worry <br />At the rapid race of Time-- <br />And he flies in such a flurry <br />When I trip him with a rhyme, <br />I'll bother him no longer <br />Than to thank you for the thought <br />That 'my fame is growing stronger <br />As you really think it ought.' <br /> <br />And though I fall below it, <br />I might know as much of mirth <br />To live and die a poet <br />Of unacknowledged worth; <br />For Fame is but a vagrant-- <br />Though a loyal one and brave, <br />And his laurels ne'er so fragrant <br />As when scattered o'er the grave.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-letter-to-a-friend-8/
