Wasted Days

A fair slim boy not made for this world's pain.

With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears,

And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears

Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: -

Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain,

Red under lip drawn for fear of Love,

And white throat whiter than the breast of dove.

Alas! Alas! if all should be in vain.

 

Behind, wide fields, and reapers all a-row

In heat and labour toiling wearily,

To no sweet sound of laughter or of lute.

The sun is shooting wide its crimson glow,

Still the boy dreams: nor knows that night is nigh,

And in the night-time no man gathers fruit.