A record of the inward world, whose facts Are thoughts -- and feelings -- fears, and hopes, and dreams. There are some days that might outmeasure years -- Days that obliterate the past, and make The future of the colour which they cast. A day may be a destiny; for life Lives in but little -- but that little teems With some one chance, the balance of all time: A look -- a word -- and we are wholly changed. We marvel at ourselves -- we would deny That which is working in the hidden soul; But the heart knows and trembles at the truth: On such these records linger. |