Till reach you swaddling clothes at last.
And in those clothes perhaps you’d prate,
Couldst thou but speak or meditate,
Oh, but times then were better still.
’Tis fate’s old witticism ill.
So, it may be a better fate
When hearts will cease to meditate.
A SONNET OF LIFE
How strange and feverish the haste appears,
With which our modern living flies.