 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
115
DISPARAGEMENT.
Make haste, make haste, my prudent little friends!You lag behind the world, both blind and halt,—
For your own credit leave off finding fault,
And wisely bustle up to make amends:
Look you! time was, when even such small salt
As your encouragement and speaking fair
Would have been prized and grateful; savouring well
The taste of bitterness, the touch of care
The proud young spirit felt, but scorn'd to tell,
When, keenly sensitive of man's despite,
While conscious that from kinder Heav'n above
A gift had been vouchsafed of purest light,
That spirit coveted your looks of love,
And yearn'd around, and ye refused his Right.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |