Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | July 21, 2008


by Olivia Ward Bush-Banks (1869 – 1944).




I stand upon the haunted plain

 Of vanished day and year,

And ever o’er its gloomy waste

 Some strange, sad voice I hear.

Some voice from out the shadowed Past;               5

 And one I call Regret,

And one I know is Misspent Hours,

 Whose memory lingers yet.


Then Failure speaks in bitter tones,

 And Grief, with all its woes;                                      10

Remorse, whose deep and cruel stings

 My painful thoughts disclose.

Thus do these voices speak to me,

 And flit like shadows past;

My spirit falters in despair,                                         15

 And tears flow thick and fast.


But when, within the wide domain

 Of Future Day and Year

I stand, and o’er its sunlit Plain

 A sweeter Voice I hear,                                               20

Which bids me leave the darkened Past

 And crush its memory,–

I’ll listen gladly, and obey

 The Voice of Opportunity. 



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