  TOO late, I drew from scanty springs The barren cheer that in them lies. Too late, I fettered eager wings That longed to bathe in bluer skies. Too late, I squandered golden hours God gave me for his praise to spend. Too late, I gathered idle flowers Forgetful of my journey’s end. God needs my deed; however small The help I lend, to work his will, Not without grief he sees me fall. Or fail his purpose to fulfil. New York, March 1, 1854. |
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