Hartley Coleridge (1796–1849)

LONG time a child, and still a child, when years

Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I;

For yet I lived like one not born to die:

A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,

No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep; and waking,

I waked to sleep no more; at once o’ertaking

The vanguard of my age, with all arrears

Of duty on my back.—Nor child, nor man,

Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray,

For I have lost the race I never ran;

A rathe December blights my lagging May;

And still I am a child, though I be old:

Time is my debtor for my years untold.