The poor old Past, The Future's slave, She drudged through pain and crime To bring about the blissful Prime, Then-perished. There's a grave!

With shouts the torrents down the gorges go, And storms are formed behind the storm we feel: The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.

At the height of their madness The night winds pause, Recollecting themselves; But no lull in these wars.

Youth is the time when hearts are large, And stirring wars Appeal to the spirit which appeals in turn To the blade it draws.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

When you look closely it is a question whether that which is a wrong to the present community may not prove to have been a right to the interests of posterity.…

I've always been more interested in the future than in the past.