A Foretaste

AT length the then of my long hope was now; Yet had my spirit an extreme unrest: I knew the good from better was grown best At length, but could not just as yet tell how. So I lay straight along, and thrust my brow Under the heights of grass. Hours struck. The West, I knew, must be at change; but gazed not, lest The heat against my naked face (no bough For shade) should tease me mad, like poisoned spice. I lay along, letting my whole self think, Pressing my brow down that the thoughts might fix: Just as a dicer who holds loaded dice, Sure of his cast, keeps trifling with his drink Ere he will throw, and still must taste and mix.