A SLOTHFUL YOUTH.
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Beside the road in youth I sat in slumber,
The passers hailed and told me it was day;
“But, ah!” said I, “my days are great in number.”
And soundly slept, regardless of their say.
Now, here I sit; the night has come upon me;
I fain would go, but darkness hides my way.
I’d turn to God that He would look upon me;
I’ve now forgot the prayer I used to pray.
Yet, while I sit and vainly wait, the morning,
I yearn to tell, but ah! it is too late.
That he who sleeps at day and fails the warning,
Shall wake at night, the dreadful ultimate.
A QUEST.
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Tell me, my soul, tell me, I pine to know,
Some future day, known as the harvest time!
Am I to reap from all the grain I sow,
My ill-wrought deed am I to claim as mine?
If I should hurl my javelin in the dark,
And spread out thorns and thistles ’long the way,
Will it return and find me as its mark?
Am I to tread the thorns some future day?