The Lapse
This poem must be done to—day;
Then, I 'll e’en to it.
I must not dream my time away,—
I ‘m sure to rue it.
The day is rather bright, I know
The Muse will pardon
My half—defection, if I go
Into the garden.
It must be better working there,—
I ’m sure it’s sweeter:
And something in the balmy air
May clear my metre.
Ah this is noble, what a sky!
What breezes blowing!
The very clouds, I know not why,
Call one to rowing.
The stream will be a paradise
To—day, I 'll warrant.
I know the tide that’s on the rise
Will seem a torrent;
I know just how the leafy boughs
Are all a—quiver;
I know how many skiffs and scows
Are on the river.
I think I 'll just go out awhile
Before I write it;
When Nature shows us such a smile,
We should n’t slight it.
For Nature always makes desire
By giving pleasure;
And so 't will help me put more fire
Into my measure.
The river’s fine, I ‘m glad I came,
That poem ’s teasing;
But health is better far than fame,
Though cheques are pleasing.
I don’t know what I did it for,—
This air ‘s a poppy.
I ’m sorry for my editor,—
He 'll get no copy!
