PROGRESSION

To each progressive soul there comes a day

When all things that have pleased and satisfied

Grow flavourless, the springs of joy seem dried.

No more the waters of youth's fountains play;

Yet out of reach, tiptoeing as they may,

The more mature and higher pleasures hide.

Life, like a careless nurse, fails to provide

New toys for those the soul has cast away.

Upon a strange land's border all alone,

Awhile it stands dismayed and desolate.

Nude too, since its old garments are outgrown;

Till clothed with strength befitting its estate,

It grasps at length those raptures that are known

To souls who learn to labour, and to wait.