| |
|
O that a week
could be an age, and we
Felt parting and warm meeting
every week,
Then one poor year a thousand years would
be,
The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
So
could we live long life in little space,
So time
itself would be annihilate,
So a day's journey in
oblivious haze
To serve ourjoys would lengthen and
dilate.
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
To
land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!
In little
time a host of joys to bind,
And keep our souls in
one eternal pant!
This morn, my friend, and
yester-evening taught
Me how to harbour such a happy
thought.
|
|
|
