A book of English poetry; ed. by T. Shorter

19i t'ODB OJ' JUtJ'LECJ'lOl!r .ll!iD SDTUUII't.

:B&LIBVE n•ot that your inner eye

Can ever in just measure try

The worth of Hours as they go by ;

For every m·an•s weak self, alas!

Makes him to see them, while they pau,

As througlb a dim or taillted glass:

But if in en.rnest caJ•e you would

Mete out to each its pa.rt of good,

Trust rather to your after-mood,

Those suraly are not fairly spent

1

That leave your s~_>irit bow'd ana bent

In sad unmet and ill..eoutent:

And more,--tboagb free from seeming harm,

You rest ti·om toil of mind or ann,

Or slow rei~ire from pleasure's charm,-

If then a p:a.inful sense comes on

Of somethin{{ wholly lost and gone,

Vainly eujlly d or vainly done,~

Of aomethi:og from your being's chain

:Broke off, Iilor to be liuk'd again

By all mer'~ memory can reta.in,-

Upon your heart this truth may rise,-

N'othing tha t altogether dies

Suffi~11 wa.u's just destinies I

So should ~ve live, that every Hour

b!Ay die as dies the nat-ural ftower,-

A self-reviv'iug thing of power ;

That every thought and every deed

May hold vrithin itself the seed

or future gpod aud future ueed;

Esteeming 1sorrow, whose employ

Is to develop, not destroy,

Far better tha.n a barren joy.

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