Sonnet Lxxxix.

Dost thou complain that, in thy weary toil, Day after day takes from thee something dear; So that less welcome through the circling year Come the new seasons;--Spring, with waking smile; And full uncinctured Summer; and the guile Of Autumn, lavishing, but stealing more; And that close Winter brings thee not the store Of sweet poetic labour, as erewhile?-- Be it thy care unfailing talk to hold With Nature's children; be thou up at morn Ere the the first warbler sinks into the corn; Stand and watch evening spread her tent with gold: Thence draw thy treasures, of their worth secure; Lower deceives; the source alone is pure.