I seem’d so rich, with promise of the Future,
I stand so desolate, calling to the Past,
The Present mocks the yet unfashion’d suture;
A gloom there is o’er all the landskip cast:
Why should brief joy shadow such length of woes?
Why should the sweet taste sourly to the sense?
The diamond yet within the casket glows,
Why should its brilliance fright my fancy hence?
I would all pain and pleasure were forgot:
My ineffectual thought giddies with hope;
Relief with blotted joys were dearly got;
Bliss, vacillating, sails in such strait scope:
My mind knows not its thoughts; they storm and veer;
Time, draw some comfort from the Present’s fear.