Who has not marked, where the full cheek should be, Incipient lines of lank flaccidity, Lymphatic pallor where the pink should glow, And where the throb of transport, pulses low?— Most tragical of shapes from Pole to Line, O wondering child, unwitting Time’s design, Why should Art add to Nature’s quandary, And worsen ill by thus immuring thee? —That races do despite unto their own, That Might supernal do indeed condone Wrongs individual for the general ease, Instance the proof in victims such as these. Launched into thoroughfares too thronged before, Mothered by those whose protest is “No more!” Vitalized without option: who shall say That did Life hang on choosing—Yea or Nay— They had not scorned it with such penalty, And nothingness implored of Destiny? And yet behind the horizon smile serene The down, the cornland, and the stretching green— Space—the child’s heaven: scenes which at least ensure Some palliative for ill they cannot cure. Dear friends—now moved by this poor show of ours To make your own long joy in buds and bowers For one brief while the joy of infant eyes, Changing their urban murk to paradise— You have our thanks!—may your reward include More than our thanks, far more: their gratitude. “I LOOK INTO MY GLASS” I LOOK into my glass, And view my wasting skin, And say, “Would God it came to pass My heart had shrunk as thin!” For then, I, undistrest By hearts grown cold to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity. But Time, to make me grieve; Part steals, lets part abide; And shakes this fragile frame at eve With throbbings of noontide.