 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
267
Dear Hudson.
1840.
Dear Hudson, a winter of time has gone by
Since last we were seated together;
Bat my soul never shrunk for the scowl of the sky,
And it still bids deflance to weather!
But why should I hint at my griefs, 'mid the light
That from wine and true friendship we borrow?
We wont have a word but of pleasure tonight—
We can talk of our troubles tomorrow.
Since last we were seated together;
Bat my soul never shrunk for the scowl of the sky,
And it still bids deflance to weather!
But why should I hint at my griefs, 'mid the light
That from wine and true friendship we borrow?
We wont have a word but of pleasure tonight—
We can talk of our troubles tomorrow.
What's the want men so shun, or the wealth they so crave,
That a care about either should bind us?
A good name is the thing, which, surviving the grave,
Shall leave its long perfume behind us.
One hour—be futurity gloomy or bright—
This hour shall be sacred from sorrow;
We wont have a word but of pleasure tonight—
We can talk of our troubles tomorrow.
That a care about either should bind us?
A good name is the thing, which, surviving the grave,
Shall leave its long perfume behind us.
One hour—be futurity gloomy or bright—
This hour shall be sacred from sorrow;
We wont have a word but of pleasure tonight—
We can talk of our troubles tomorrow.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |