Sonnet. by Frances Anne Kemble
Thou art to me like one, who in a dream
Of pleasant fancies is borne sleeping by
The place where a great treasure hid doth lie:
Anon thou wilt awake, and thou’lt exclaim—
‘How was it that along this path I came,
And left so great a treasure on my way?
I will make haste to seek it:’ shalt thou say—
And then, thou shalt re-measure thoughtfully
The steps thou didst fly over in thy sleep,
But vainly shalt thou wander there, and weep,
For while thou didst pass dreaming, careless, on,
Another followed, and with digging deep,
And diligent seeking, did the harvest reap
That was held to thy hand—and thou wouldst none.