Letter In Verse

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain     For the mere joy of riding back again,     When summer from the meadow carts the hay     And school hours leave them half a day to play;     So I with leisure on three sides a sheet     Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet,     Just to ride post upon the wings of time     And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme.     The muse's gallop hurries me in sport     With much to read and little to divert,     And I, amused, with less of wit than will,     Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still.     Like children running races who shall be     First in to touch the orchard wall or tree,     The last half way behind, by distance vext,     Turns short, determined to be first the next;     So now the muse has run me hard and long--     I'll leave at once her races and her song;     And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close     And beat her out by ending it in prose.