Hartley Coleridge

Like a loose island on the wide expanse, Unconscious floating on the fickle sea, Herself her all, she lives in privacy; Her waking life as lonely as a trance, Doom’d to behold the universal dance, And never hear the music which expounds The solemn step, coy slide, the merry bounds. The vague, mute language of the countenance. In vain for her I smooth my antic rhyme; She cannot hear it. All her little being Concentrated in her solitary seeing— What can she know of beauty or sublime? And yet methinks she looks so calm and good, God must be with her in her solitude!

Long time a child, and still a child, when years Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I,— For yet I lived like one not born to die; A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears, No hope I needed, and I knew no fears. But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking, I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking The vanguard of my age, with all arrears Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man, Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey, For I have lost the race I never ran: A rathe December blights my lagging May; And still I am a child, tho’ I be old, Time is my debtor for my years untold.

I have been cherish’d and forgiven By many tender-hearted, ’Twas for the sake of one in Heaven Of him that is departed. Because I bear my Father’s name I am not quite despised, My little legacy of fame I’ve not yet realized. And yet if you should praise myself I’ll tell you, I had rather You’d give your love to me, poor elf, Your praise to my great father.