With new hour come an old hour fall,
In least of which was tree yea tall,
Ere he stood all his nil was struck,
Ere he stood all his joy was sucked,
For what seemed an hour then he stood,
For sought was sentiment in brood;
And all time compressed to a drop,
Whilst all mem’ry pressed to a sop,
With every tender touch comes warmth,
With every tender thought is morph,
Which how soon is but ill despised
At how the next years are come surprised,
Nor better are fools with hope at stake,
Now gleams in tide this Earth to take,
Had he not walked this far to go
Then roads yond can n’er come so low,
This ought be the hour life partakes
Though few have stopped better to take.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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