And all mankind mistake their time of day;
Even age itself. Fresh hopes are hourly sown
In furrow’d brows. To gentle life’s descent
We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain.
We take fair days in winter, for the spring; 440
And turn our blessings into bane. Since oft
Man must compute that age he cannot feel,
He scarce believes he’s older for his years.
Thus, at life’s latest eve, we keep in store
One disappointment sure, to crown the rest;