An Autograph

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O’er the wet sands an insect crept
Ages ere man on earth was known—
And patient Time, while Nature slept,
The slender tracing turned to stone.

’T was the first autograph: and ours?  
Prithee, how much of prose or song,
In league with the creative powers,
Shall ’scape Oblivion’s broom so long.

© James Russell Lowell