ALL THINGS COME ROUND

“ALL things come round to him who will but wait.”
 Ah poet! were thy rhythmic words but true,
We said, and closed the book. For our estate
Was at its lowest ebb; and heavy grew
The bitter “income tax laid on by fate,”
Which is evaded by the lucky few,
And is assessed in such a pleasant way,
That, all the less you have, the more you pay.

“All things come round.” Much, much has come to us,
That we had been well satisfied to miss.
The tolling bell, slow creaking in its rust;
The trusted lips, that sold us with a kiss;
The coffins, that were lowered into dust;
The griefs we might not tell; the serpent hiss
Of slander; loss of health or worldly gear,
And hopes, that turned up blanks from year to year.

’Tis sad to find how little that is worth
For which we waited long. ’Tis sadder still
To find the hearts we trusted most on earth—
Not dead—but dull, indifferent, and chill.
Tis sad to see the roof above the hearth
We loved in childhood, at a stranger’s will
Torn down for some new whim of innovation
In gewgaw taste, or modern speculation.

But sadder far than this, than these, than all,
Is loss of youth—the Mayday of the soul.
To see the years close round us like a pall,
To feel our lives unrolling a blank scroll:
The head becoming like a billiard ball,
Eyes failing, teeth decaying, and the whole
Anatomy gone into liquidation,
To close a very pressing obligation.