It Is Later Than You Think

There! my pipe is out. Let me light it again and consider. I have no illusions about myself. I am not fool enough to think I am a poet, but I have a knack of rhyme and I love to make verses. Mine is a tootling, tin-whistle music. Humbly and afar I follow in the footsteps of Praed and Lampson, of Field and Riley, hoping that in time my Muse may bring me bread and butter. So far, however, it has been all kicks and no coppers. And to-night I am at the end of my tether. I wish I knew where to-morrow's breakfast was coming from. Well, since rhyming's been my ruin, let me rhyme to the bitter end.     It Is Later Than You Think      Lone amid the cafe's cheer,      Sad of heart am I to-night;      Dolefully I drink my beer,      But no single line I write.      There's the wretched rent to pay,      Yet I glower at pen and ink:      Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray,      It is later than you think!      Hello! there's a pregnant phrase.      Bravo! let me write it down;      Hold it with a hopeful gaze,      Gauge it with a fretful frown;      Tune it to my lyric lyre . . .      Ah! upon starvation's brink,      How the words are dark and dire:      It is later than you think.      Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band,      Students drinking by the door,      Madly merry, bock in hand,      Saucers stacked to mark their score.      Get you gone, you jolly scamps;      Let your parting glasses clink;      Seek your long neglected lamps:      It is later than you think.      Look again: yon dainty blonde,      All allure and golden grace,      Oh so willing to respond      Should you turn a smiling face.      Play your part, poor pretty doll;      Feast and frolic, pose and prink;      There's the Morgue to end it all,      And it's later than you think.      Yon's a playwright - mark his face,      Puffed and purple, tense and tired;      Pasha-like he holds his place,      Hated, envied and admired.      How you gobble life, my friend;      Wine, and woman soft and pink!      Well, each tether has its end:      Sir, it's later than you think.      See yon living scarecrow pass      With a wild and wolfish stare      At each empty absinthe glass,      As if he saw Heaven there.      Poor damned wretch, to end your pain      There is still the Greater Drink.      Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . .      It is later than you think.      Lastly, you who read; aye, you      Who this very line may scan:      Think of all you planned to do . . .      Have you done the best you can?      See! the tavern lights are low;      Black's the night, and how you shrink!      God! and is it time to go?      Ah! the clock is always slow;      It is later than you think;      Sadly later than you think;      Far, far later than you think.