God spare the day when I am satisfied!

I do not want the earth,

Yet nothing less will leave me quite content;

And once ’tis mine,

I’m very sure you’ll find me roaming off

After the universe!

TO A WITHERED ROSE

Thy span of life was all too short—

Thy

A week or two at best—

From budding-time, through blossoming,

To withering and rest.

Yet compensation hast thou—aye!—

For all thy little woes;

For was it not thy happy lot

To live and die a rose?

THE WORST OF ENEMIES

I do not fear an enemy

I do

Who all his days hath hated me.

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