Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Roses Diary (1850). Each day a page is of my beings bookHenry Septimus Sutton (18251901)
N
And what I do is what I write therein;
And often do I make sad blots of sin;
And seldom proves the writing quite akin
To what my heart beforehand undertook.
My hope of now at last a nobler page;
But presently in something I engage
That looks but poorly on a calm review,
And leaves my future a mean heritage.
And the dark spots show through, and I grow sad,
And blush, and frown, and sigh. And, if I had
A million pages yet to write upon,
Perhaps the millionth would be just as bad.
May be before me. And perhaps I may
Write, even yet, some not ignoble day.
Alas! I do not know;—I cannot say.—
What is it to feel living?—I forget.