On thy bed of clover playing,
Pretty insect, why so gay?
Why so blithely dress’d this morning;
‘Tis to thee no Sabbath-day.
Giddy trifler of an hour,
Days to thee are all the same;
Little care hast thou to count them,
Mindful only of thy game.
And thou dost well — for never sorrow
Sat upon thy golden brow;
And never storm of earthly passion
Gather’d in thy breast of snow.
Thou hast not sigh’d at evening’s closing,
For hopes that left thee on its wing;
Thou hast not wept at day’s returning,
With thoughts of what that day might bring.
Nor ever voice of truth neglected,
Breathed reproaches in thine ear,
Nor secret pang of conscious error,
Spake of retribution near.
Play thy game, thou spotless worm?
Stranger still to care and sorrow;
Take thy meed of bliss to-day,
Thou wilt perish ere to-morrow.
Time has been, when, like thee, thoughtless,
How unlike in all beside!
Lightly sped, and all uncounted,
Blithe I saw the moments glide.
Then the world was all of flowers,
Thornless as thy clover bed;
Then my folly ask’d no question,
What might be when these were dead.
Had not Mercy’s sterner pity
Bent its chast’ning rod on me,
Dancing still the round of pleasure,
I had died — but not like thee.
(Caroline Fry)
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Based on Topics: World Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Flowers Poems, Happiness Poems, Morning Poems, Truth Poems, Snow Poems, Pleasure Poems, Dancing Poems, Error & Mistake PoemsBased on Keywords: thornless, trifler, sabbath-day, reproaches