SONNETS
VI. TO ——
SONNETS
“Miss not the occasion: by the forelock take That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, Lest a mere moment’s putting-off should make Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.” “WAIT, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed; Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true To old affections, had been heard to plead With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek! Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain 10 Of harmony!–a shriek of terror, pain, And self-reproach! for, from aloft, a Kite Pounced,–and the Dove, which from its ruthless beak She could not rescue, perished in her sight! 1835.