Those who scorn their family tree, with no regard for pedigree,
And turn blind eye to all things past, from which their present has been cast.
By generations, long since cold, who, like or not, have been their mould.
Do credit none who’ve gone before: Nor honour those who are their core.
Those who fear the family tree for misdemeanours, plain to see.
That lead to unrestrained dirge, O’er rattling spectres that emerge
To cast barred shadows on the name, Or even kill a fancied claim.
To pure descent will surely plead that such is witness false indeed.
But those who take their family tree and trace its story lovingly:
Who neither fear nor scorn its tale, or try to hide what cannot fail.
In God’s good time to come to light, are blessed, indeed, with second sight.
To know for certain whence they came, and, knowing that, revere their name.
What is the present but a passing phase, between the past and future unspent days?
What’s gone is substance that, in having been, cannot be touched, or heard, or even seen.
Yet there remains a slender tenuous tread to give a glimpse of those which wider spread.
From age to age, embracing countless acts, that link together, give historic facts.
So that our passing present, having passed, creates in death, tomorrow’s future cast.
No one is dead, who leaves behind some word, some record, or his role however blurred.
And counting not for much while he’s alive: It swells the past on which all future thrive.
The flower that blooms so briefly in its prime, so glorious while it lasts for such short time
Is but ephemeral glimpse of Now and Then. But what has gone before will come again.
So is it with our lives, so short, so sweet.
They run their course, that past and future meet.