Author: Henry David Thoreau (---.spacegate.com.ua)
Date: 01-12-06 08:43
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Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call\'d to that audit by advis\'d respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre\'d the benefit of rest?
When day\'s oppression is not eas\'d by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress\'d,
And each, though enemies to either\'s reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion\'d night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild\'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief\'s length seem stronger.
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock\'d up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol\'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion\'s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger\'s jaws,
And burn the long-liv\'d phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate\'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love\'s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty\'s pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.