Over the trackless past, somewhere,
Lie the lost days of our tropic youth,
Only regained by faith and prayer,
Only recalled by prayer and plaint:
Each lost day has its patron saint.
BRET HARTE: _The Lost Galleon,_ Last St.
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: _Chambered Nautilus._