My years to come are numbered on two hands, Ten fingers do the trick, and that is all; Yet when this Cuckoo's dead, and comes no more, Shall I not live to hear his grandchild call? So when I give a year-old dog my heart, With three-score years and more, and he so young – Judged by our life we live on equal terms, Because his life is short, while mine is long. To end this logic with that bird again, Be it enough to say I hope one thing – That I'll be here when this contemporary's dead. Ten Aprils hence, to hear his grandchild sing. |