Sonnet To John Hamilton Reynolds


    O that a week could be an age, and we
    Felt parting and warm meeting every week,
    Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
    The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
    So could we live long life in little space,
    So time itself would be annihilate,
    So a day's journey in oblivious haze
    To serve ourjoys would lengthen and dilate.
    O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
    To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!
    In little time a host of joys to bind,
    And keep our souls in one eternal pant!
    This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught
    Me how to harbour such a happy thought.


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