THINK ye the joys that fill our early day, Are the poor prelude to some full repast? Think you they promise? -- ah! believe they pay; The purest ever, they are oft the last. The jovial swain that yokes the morning team, And all the verdure of the field enjoys, See him, how languid! when the noontide beam Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys. So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled, We at the summit of our hill arrive: Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past -- are dead, But what still deepening clouds of Care survive! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM OF A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK by THOMAS MOORE GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE JOY OF CHURCH FELLOWSHIP RIGHTLY ATTENDED by EDWARD TAYLOR ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 12. ON RECOVERING FROM A FIT OF SICKNESS IN COUNTRY by MARK AKENSIDE INGRATITUDE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SELF-COMMUNING by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE |