O’er the wet sands an insect crept
Ages ere man on earth was known—
And patient Time, while Nature slept,
The slender tracing turned to stone.
’Twas the first autograph: and ours?
Prithee, how much of prose or song,
In league with the Creative powers,
Shall ’scape Oblivion’s broom so long?
In great haste,
Faithfully yours,