I fling the past behind me, like a robe br Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date. br I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep br And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes br Of oriental splendor, or complain br That I must needs discard it? I can weave br Upon the shuttles of the future years br A fabric far more durable. Subdued, br It may be, in the blending of its hues, br Where somber shades commingle, yet the gleam br Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, br While over all a fadeless luster lies, br And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, br My new robe shall be richer than the old.