 | Collected poems |  |
472
ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME
(TO F. G.)
With slower pen men used to write,
Of old, when “letters” were “polite;”
In Anna's, or in George's days,
They could afford to turn a phrase,
Or trim a straggling theme aright.
Of old, when “letters” were “polite;”
In Anna's, or in George's days,
They could afford to turn a phrase,
Or trim a straggling theme aright.
They knew not steam; electric light
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;—
They meted out both blame and praise
With slower pen.
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;—
They meted out both blame and praise
With slower pen.
Too swiftly now the Hours take flight!
What's read at morn is dead at night:
Scant space have we for Art's delays,
Whose breathless thought so briefly stays,
We may not work—ah! would we might!—
With slower pen
What's read at morn is dead at night:
Scant space have we for Art's delays,
Whose breathless thought so briefly stays,
We may not work—ah! would we might!—
With slower pen
| Collected poems | |