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.