If only time would permit-
Yet long hours are spent
Pining after labors lost, or never found.

"Eventually," we say, and
Put sensuous things behind

"Later," we muse,
And begin our work towards the end.

"Soon," we mutter, as our
Heartbeats grow faint;

Dim eyes look up, and
Smile.

"Now?" We ask,
Like anxious children,
While gibbous wanes.

A rare treat of marginal quality (har har), that is, from the margins of my Milton book (circa '94?). Which, disgustingly (especially since it was such an expensive book) still bares Dr. Peter Medine's chalky handprint and apple-spittle.