Poem by Anna Seward

Sonnet 2. The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,
    Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;
    Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;
    But Hope stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes
That gild the days to come.—She still relies
    The Phantom Happiness not thus shall glide
    Always from life.—Alas!—yet ill betide
    Austere Experience, when she coldly tries
In distant roses to discern the thorn!
    Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?
    Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.
Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,
    When yet again, shining through april-tears,
    Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.

1. Sonnet 78. Sophia tempts me to her social walls
2. Sonnet 89. Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary light
3. Sonnet 17. Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sight
4. Sonnet 36. Now on hills, rocks, and streams, and vales, and plains
5. Sonnet 68. Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow

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