SONNETS TO PLINY THE YOUNGER ON READING HIS LETTERS
I
Thou, who didst crave for immortality,
Methinks, wouldst be content if thou couldst know
Thy very letters, penned so long ago,
Still live, and give delight, at this late day.
Far more than eighteen centuries of years
Have passed away since they were penned and read
By those, thy many friends, whom thou didst stead
In time of trouble, mingling thy tears
With theirs and smoothing many a thorny way
With words of wisest council and of love:
Putting thyself aside to succor them;
And clinging to them in adversity.
Naught but unworthiness couldst cool thy love:
E'en that, the tide of pity couldst not stem.
Methinks, wouldst be content if thou couldst know
Thy very letters, penned so long ago,
Still live, and give delight, at this late day.
Far more than eighteen centuries of years
Have passed away since they were penned and read
By those, thy many friends, whom thou didst stead
In time of trouble, mingling thy tears
With theirs and smoothing many a thorny way
With words of wisest council and of love:
Putting thyself aside to succor them;
And clinging to them in adversity.
Naught but unworthiness couldst cool thy love:
E'en that, the tide of pity couldst not stem.
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