Where hast thou gone, my Day?
I meant to follow,
Extracting from thine every hour its sweet;
But thou, beguiling hope with pledges hollow,
Art flown on wingèd feet.
Hardly I greet thy morn,
The glory dwindles;
And as I plan thy moments with delight,
The evening-primrose in my pathway kindles
Her taper for the night.
Ah, too precipitate!
Might I not linger
To gather a stray blossom by the way,
But pointing onward with thy warning finger,
Thou must outstrip me, Day?
Gladly I welcomed thee,
An eager lover
Who deemed he knew each fleeting moment's cost.
Is there no way, no method, to recover
The treasure I have lost?
Ah, no! From Time, alas!
One may not borrow;
Nor move him what is squandered to restore.
The tide flows back, and there may dawn a morrow;
Thee I shall find no more.