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Poem	I saw fair Fortune, one clear morning, touch Like the bright-sceptred sun’s first point of scorn, With slightest finger my full-ripen’d corn. I glimps’d her beauty: slender was she, such As the moon’s waning sickle, paled afar, Or dawn’s faint star-sheaves that scarce vision’d are. I said, ‘O my life’s crowning queen, for thee Have I long toiled without repose or rest; In hope of thee, my harvest heavenly, Labour’d & waited, still thou lingerest, Tryest me still’—She turning smil’d & said, ‘Though this be, be not thou uncomforted: Lo now already thy night-ending sun In world-seen splendour hath his day begun’.
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