My kite--how fast and far it flew!
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,
The tasks I wrote--my present dreams
Will never soar so high!


V.

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;--
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!


VI.

My football's laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock myself
The world knocks to and fro;--
My archery is all unlearn'd,
And grief against myself has turn'd
My arrows and my bow!


VII.