 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
TO-MORROW.
Oh may it never come, that unique day,To-morrow, but for ever be To-morrow!
What plausible excuse without, to borrow
Of that old usurer, Time, who makes fine play
And baits with it for fools, as anglers may
With sham flies for poor fish; though to our sorrow
He only gives us line, and doth forgo
In Present to make Future smart and pay;
A very Shylock! Thou most slippery
Of days! Thou very Proteus, changing shape
E'en when we seem to fix thee 'neath our eye;
Thou play'st as many antics as an ape.
Occasion's forelock we may seize, but thy
Elusive hold all grasp doth still escape.
| Stones from The Quarry | |