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Worn threadbare at the seams, and out of date.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