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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536689" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To One Who Would Make A Confession</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536689" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Oh! leave the past to buy its own dead.<br>The past is naught to us, the present all.<br>What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed?<br>What need of ghosts to grace a festival?<br>I would not, if I could, those days recall,<br>Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread.<br>The lamps are lit, and music plays withal.<br>Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.<br>This island is our home. Around it roar<br>Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits and seas.<br>What matter in what wreck we reached the shore, <br>So we both reached it? We can mock at these.<br>Oh! leave the past, if past indeed there be;<br>I would not know it; I would know but thee.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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