SHORT DAYS.

Now is the Sun, erst spendthrift of his rays

And lavish of his largesses of light,

Become a miser in his latter days,

An avaricious dotard, alter'd quite.

Is he the same that all the summer long

Strew'd with ungrudging hand his gleaming gold?

Can such ill grace to high estate belong?

Can bright be dim? can warm so soon be cold?

Ay, but he goes his parsimonious way,

And hoards his shining treasures from the view,

And garners up his riches‘ gainst the day

When Earth, the prodigal, shall beg anew;

Then to her need he'll give no niggard dole,

But wealth incalculable, heart and soul.