Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes ,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and in their hands.
To each they offer gifts, after his will,--
Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds them all.
I, in my garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn saw the scorn.
1851, the Atlantic 
Criticism on "Days"