Read the passage. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endueth. In this octave from Sonnet VII by John Milton, how does the speaker feel about having not yet created a great body of work?
