Anticipation
Anticipation is the oil that feeds
The flame of life. It is the Siren fair
That sings at twilight in the hollow reeds,
And drowns the moaning discord of despair.
Nay, now in darkest night it comes to me,-
It dulls the edge of every present care:
Blots from the tablets of the memory
What hath been ill, or is, inscribing there
In golden letters that which yet may be
Of earth’s good things my individual share.
And should the days be drearier in age,
And disappointment part of mine estate,
With fortune I shall not a warfare wage,
But sing my song as now,-as now anticipate.
