Dry Rot

Within the secret chambers of my heart, I have stored too much of Yesterday. And now I fear that it may break apart, Sapped of its strength by dry decay.

For I have learned that stored-up memories Are not enough, that phantoms are not friends. Without new dreams, my weary heart foresees, A dead tomorrow as each gray day ends.

Today is for the living heart, -- the brave, While yesteryear is gone beyond recall. And if too much of it we try to save, Our treasure turns to wormwood and to gall.