Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
III. Long time a childHartley Coleridge (17961849)
L
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 gray,
For I have lost the race I never ran;
A rathe December blights my lagging May;
And still I am a child, though I be old:
Time is my debtor for my years untold.