Poems of Experience/Progression

To each progressive soul there comes a day When all things that have pleased and satisfied Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried. No more the waters of youth’s fountains play; Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may, The more mature and higher pleasures hide. Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide New toys for those the soul has cast away.

Upon a strange land’s border all alone, Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate. Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown; Till clothed with strength befitting its estate, It grasps at length those raptures that are known To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.