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 25. Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!
2. Sonnet 45. From Possibility's dim chaos sprung
3. Sonnet 71. While Summer Roses all their glory yield
4. Sonnet 58. Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes
5. Sonnet 15. The evening shines in May's luxuriant pride

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