Many a night from yonder benches, when I longed to be in bed,
Saw I not the great Orion, but the Grand Old Man instead.
Saw I not the starry Pleiads, but the meteor stars that fade,
Flashing for their little moment, passing into outer shade.
Here about the floor I waited, when I knew my youth sublime,
Waited for the time to ripen, for the very nick of time—
Then I dipped into the future, far as one keen eye could see,
Saw the Vision of an earldom, and the garter round my knee.
In the spring the little chicken only just has left the shell,
In the spring that little chicken thinks himself a precious swell.