Sonnet VII: How soon hath Time, the Subtle Thief of Youth
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet it be less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
John Milton's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Sonnet VII: How soon hath Time, the Subtle Thief of Youth by John Milton )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- you know who you are, Clara Keiper
- Corners Of A Storm, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- Visibly appar, hasmukh amathalal
- Love's Journey, Savita Tyagi
- Check the dogs, gajanan mishra
- Smoking Euthanasia, Dexsta Ray
- Touch, Francis Wanyiri
- poet laureate i think, lee fones
- सोरनिबा आगान, Ronjoy Brahma
- Roaring ready to go…, Mark Heathcote