Anticipation is the oil that feeds <br />The flame of life. It is the Siren fair <br />That sings at twilight in the hollow reeds, <br />And drowns the moaning discord of despair. <br />Nay, now in darkest night it comes to me,- <br />It dulls the edge of every present care: <br />Blots from the tablets of the memory <br />What hath been ill, or is, inscribing there <br />In golden letters that which yet may be <br />Of earth's good things my individual share. <br />And should the days be drearier in age, <br />And disappointment part of mine estate, <br />With fortune I shall not a warfare wage, <br />But sing my song as now,-as now anticipate.<br /><br />George Frederick Cameron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anticipation-50/
