John Kenyon Poems
Past And Future
Our Past—how strangely swift! Its years—mere months!
Months—clipped to weeks! and longest day—an hour!
But oh! how slow the Future; slow to all
Of every age and being. Yon school-urchin,
Fresh from his Christmas-home, as now he bends him
With saddened brow o'er the black greasy slate;
Or strains himself, at stroke of early clock,
His all-unwelcome bedtime, to confront
Cold touch of wiry sheet, ah! not like home's;
How vainly would he pierce the dim half year
To his next holidays; and asks himself,
'And will they—will they—can they ever come?'
Youth too, ...
Dear H---, it was you who laid it down
That up to Christmas we've no fogs in town;
And then you asked me, as I well remember,
What can the country offer in November?
To which I answer prospects, ne'er more fair,
Stream, wood and valley, seen through smokeless air;