To J. H. Reynolds
O that week could be an age, and we
Felt parting and warm meeting every week;
Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
So would we live long life in little space;
So time itself would be annihilate;
So a day’s journey in oblivious haze
To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!
In little time a host of joys to bind,
And keep our souls in one eternal pant;
This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught
Me how to harbor such a happy thought.
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