...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 42


It’s been a weary day, today, it has.

The hours—all worn out. The world—asleep.

It lingered just so long, then drifted past

The consciousness of daylight, frail and weak.

A day is life’s expanse, compacted tight

Into a four and twenty span—it’s born

As young and fresh as children, soft and bright.

It gains in vigor, rising with the morn

To fullest peak, at noontime, tall and strong.

And then, by afternoon, it starts to wane.

It yawns with such exertion, kept so long.

It hobbles into night, without complaint.

And lays itself to rest, in peace, to sleep.

It’s measure filled, the heaven’s rest to keep.

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