To John Hamilton Reynolds

O that a week could be an age, and we

      Felt parting and warm meeting every week;

Then one poor year a thousand years would be,

      The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:

So could we live long life in little space,

      So time itself would be annihilate,

So a day's journey in oblivious haze

      To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate.

O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!

      To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!

In little time a host of joys to bind,

      And keep our souls in one eternal pant!

This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught

Me how to harbor such a happy thought.