Sonnet Poem by Richard Crawley

Whom the gods love die young ! The happiest time
Comes first, 'twere better not to live the rest ;
Or live it in the visions of our prime,
Nor wait for Age to claim hope's interest.
So might we spendthrifts lay our path with flowers,
And take the riches of a score of springs,
While yet the lagging and delightful hours
Flew softly, dropping pleasure from their wings ;
Breathing no other charge against to-day,
Like children hurrying through their first romance,
Save that it stands in bright to-morrow's way,
Nor lets us see the happy end at once—
But these gay hopes would make it hard to go ;
'Twere better not to be than to die so.