The Past Is Like A Story I Have Listened To In Dreams That Vanished In The Glory Of The Morning'S Early Gleams; And - At My Shadow Glancing - I Feel A Loss Of Strength, As The Day Of Life Advancing Leaves It Shorn Of Half Its Length. But It's All In Vain To Worry At The Rapid Race Of Time - And He Flies In Such A Flurry When I Trip Him With A Rhyme, I'll Bother Him No Longer Than To Thank You For The Thought That "My Fame Is Growing Stronger As You Really Think It Ought." And Though I Fall Below It, I Might Know As Much Of Mirth To Live And Die A Poet Of Unacknowledged Worth; For Fame Is But A Vagrant - Though A Loyal One And Brave, And His Laurels Ne'er So Fragrant As When Scattered O'Er The Grave.