Littell's Living Age/Volume 170/Issue 2200/Sonnet XIII
On the last day, when rings the trumpet dread,
When earth and all its creatures are no more,
Then must we duly reckon up the score
Of all the idle words that we have said.
Oh, how shall then the many words bestead,
That every day from deep affection's store
To win thy grace right eagerly I pour,
If on thine ear they perish, ill-besped?
Look well, beloved, look into thine heart,
Think well upon thy dallying and delay,
That the world know no more such anguished smart.
If babblings vain, in which thou hast a part,
Must all be stated and explained away —
Why, I shall need a year-long judgment-day.