Henry Septimus Sutton (1825–1901)

XVI.
NOVEMBER.

EACH day a page is of my being’s book,

And what I do is what I write therein;

And often do I make sad blots of sin;

And seldom proves the writing quite akin

To what my heart beforehand undertook.

Daily I turn a fresh leaf, and renew

My hope of now at last a nobler page;

But presently in something I engage

That looks but poorly on a calm review,

And leaves my future a mean heritage.

So leaf on leaf, once clean, is turn’d and gone,

And the dark spots show through, and I grow sad,

And blush, and frown, and sigh. And, if I had

A million pages yet to write upon,

Perhaps the millionth would be just as bad.

What shall I do? Some new leaves, even yet,

May be before me. And perhaps I may

Write, even yet, some not ignoble day.

Alas! I do not know;—I cannot say.—

What is it to feel living?—I forget.