- How many a throb of the young poet-heart,
- Aspiring to the ideal bliss of Fame,
Deems that Time soon may sanctify his claim
- Among the sons of song to dwell apart.--
- Time passes--passes! The aspiring flame
- Of Hope shrinks down; the white flower Poesy
Breaks on its stalk, and from its earth-turned eye
- Drop sleepy tears instead of that sweet dew
- Rich with inspiring odours, insect wings
- Drew from its leaves with every changing sky,
- While its young innocent petals unsunn'd grew.
- No more in pride to other ears he sings,
- But with a dying charm himself unto:--
- For a sad season: then, to active life he springs.
Last modified 5/22/95