Classic Poem

Dear George: I gladly own myself your debtor,
(Would that as sweet were every debt I owe!)
For that too short and very pleasant letter
You sent to me, 'tis now two weeks ago.
Perhaps to answer I am somewhat slow,
And of your patience have made sore abuse;
But you'll forgive my tardiness, I know,
As soon as you have heard my fair excuse, —
Somewhat threadbare, no doubt, but good for further use.

Of course the plea is one of lack of time. —
'Tis always sweet your friendly thoughts to share;
But he who would the Mount of Learning climb,
Must many a cherished privilege forswear.
Full many a hardship must he cheerful bear,
And many an hour of loneliness must spend,
And grapple with that dismal fiend, Despair,
When one kind message from a faithful friend
Would from his weary heart the baleful shadows send.

Some work assigned my every hour employs;
And know, I write not from no lack of will;
But every task neglected for these joys
With bitterer toil I afterward fulfill.
E'en for this visit to the sacred Hill,
There whence the silver springs Pierian burst,
This hurried drinking from the limpid rill,
Must I in days hereafter be amerced
By longer absence thence and so much greater thirst.

If time is money, from my inmost heart
I echo what a knowing poet says:
" Would that some sage had taught mankind the art
Of coining useless dollars into days. " —
But then! what helps it, were a thousand ways
Of turning wealth to needed minutes known!
My shriveled purse a barren depth displays,
And if extremes can for extremes atone,
It well might match my hours with duties overgrown.

To prove veracious all that I have said
I'll tell exactly how these days I use, —
These days so short and far too quickly sped; —
Perchance it may your idle hour amuse.
Three happy hours do I that page peruse
Wherein are told godlike Achilles' wrong;
How faithless Paris did his host misuse;
What woes the brave Achaians suffered long;
That world-read page, Maeonides' high song.

For nearly three my thoughts made doubly slow
By task unwelcome, wearily engage
The tangled, twisted speech of Cicero
And tiresome reasonings about Old Age.
I doubt the thoughts of orator or sage,
Philosopher or poet, — whoso tries
To prison what he says in iron cage
Of words obscure — should not meet honest eyes,
Or are too weak to stand alone, or else are lies.