Page:Tixall Poetry.djvu/368

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314
Tixall Poetry.
It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleepe;
Then shrinkes into that fatal mould
Where its first being was enrol'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralis'd in age and youth;
Where all the comforts he can share
As wandring as his fancys are;
Till in a mist of darke decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial), which points out
The sunset as it moves about;
And shadows out, in lines of night,
The subtle stages of time's flight:
Till all-obscuring earth hath layd
The body in perpetuall shade.

It is a weary interlude,
Which doth short joys, long woes include.

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