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 harbour such a happy thought.