THINK ye the joys that fill our early day, Are the poor prelude to some full repast? Think you they promise? -- ah! believe they pay; The purest ever, they are oft the last. The jovial swain that yokes the morning team, And all the verdure of the field enjoys, See him, how languid! when the noontide beam Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys. So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled, We at the summit of our hill arrive: Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past -- are dead, But what still deepening clouds of Care survive! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ITALIAN PICTURES: COSTA MAGIC by MINA LOY TO A LADY WHO HAD OFFERED HIM A WREATH OF LAUREL by GEORGE SANTAYANA SWALLOW FLIGHT by SARA TEASDALE IN MAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY IMPRESSIONS: LES SILHOUETTES by OSCAR WILDE EPITHALAMIUM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |