But haply all in vain--the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustom'd letter-writing.
Courage, young friend, the time may be,
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Ev'n then, when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcom'st words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS.
A bird appears a thoughtless thing,
He's ever living on the wing,
And keeps up such a carolling,
That little else to do but sing
A man would guess had he.
No doubt he has his little cares,
And very hard he often fares;
The which so patiently he bears,
That, listening to those cheerful airs,
Who knows but he may be
In want of his next meal of seeds?
I think for _that_ his sweet song pleads;
If so, his pretty art succeeds.
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