Richard Chenevix Trench (1807–1886)

WE live not in our moments or our years;

The Present we fling from us like the rind

Of some sweet Future, which we after find

Bitter to taste; or bind that in with fears,

And water it beforehand with our tears,

Vain tears for that which never may arrive.

Meanwhile, the joy whereby we ought to live,

Neglected, or unheeded, disappears.

Wiser it were to welcome and make ours

Whate’er of good, though small, the Present brings,—

Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds, and flowers,

With a child’s pure delight in little things;

And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,

Knowing that Mercy ever will endure.