Thy story in the form it leaves thy lips;
Nor question thee, but bless thee and depart.
For surely all thy soul yearns backward now
To half remembered days, that fill the flame,
Even as you say, with floating memories,
Purged of the dross, that was a part of them,
Nought now but soft gold of thy plastic dreams,
Wrought to what shape you will: so have I heard
That we judge others and judge not ourselves
By a stern measure; and therefore we fail