Mere Waste of Time

Mere waste of time! Such rhymes as these,
A careless task for hours of ease,
No lofty thought, no fancy new,
No hope to emulate the few
For whom grow green the laurel trees;

Light as the foam that flecks the seas,
Fitful as summer's sunset breeze,
As transient as morning dew,—
Mere waste of time!

Poor guilty drone before the bees!
From tones that chide, and looks that freeze,
Impenitent I turn to you,
Your clustered hair and eyes of blue,
And whisper, “Is my toil to please
Mere waste of time?”
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