Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/25

Of witching sweetness, yet thy moods are strange,
And thy caprices terrible.
                                            Of these
I was forewarned, however, and complain
Less of thy frowns, than thine indulgences.
Thine everlasting rocking makes the soul
Peevish and sick, like an o'er-cradled child;
And thy protracted calmness lulls the mind
To dreamy idleness, stealing away
That industry, in which is half our bliss.
Things from their nature and their proper use
Thou seem'st to turn. The book we fain would read
Leaps from our hand, or cheats the swimming sight.
The needle pricks our fingers, and the pen
Makes zigzag lines. If still we persevere
To write against thy will, with desperate zeal
Grasping the table, as the Jews of old
With one hand wrought upon their wall, and held
Their weapons with the other, down amain
By some unlucky lurch the ink-stand comes,
Deluging things most precious. Last resort
Is conversation, and with quickened zeal
We turn to that, reduced again to say
The hundredth time, what we had said before.
Yet, if perchance some witticism, or tale,
We've hoarded up, and bring exulting forth,
No smile repays our toil, the listener yawns,
For thou dost dim perception, and enwrap