Sometimes the troubled tide of all the Past
Upon my spirit's trembling strand is rolled;
Years never mine--ages in hundredfold,
With all the weight those ages have amassed
Of human grief and wrong, are on me cast.
Within one sorcerous moment I grow old,
And blanch as one who scarce his way can hold,
Upon a verge that takes some flood-tide vast.
Then comes relief through some dear common thing:
The voices of the children at their play;
The wind-wave through bright meadows, moving fast;
The bluebird's skyward call, on happy wing:
So the sweet Present reassumes her sway;
So lapse the surge of the monstrous Past.