ages;
now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
their unknown pages.”
then farewell hopes of urel-boughs,
to garnd my poetic brows!
heh i'll rove where busy ploughs
are whistlin' thrang,
an' teach the nely heights an' howes
my rustig.
i'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
how never-halting moments speed,
till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
then, all unknown,
i'll y me with th' inglorious dead
fot and gone!
but why o' death being a tale?
just now we're living sound and hale;
then top and
Epistle To James Smith(4/11)