TIME.
'Tis but a dull ungrateful saying,
That life and joy are still decaying,
That all is spent in vision-weaving,
A strife of trusting and deceiving;
That time but mocks us as he flies,
Vexes our hearts and cheats our eyes!
Oh! as we mark the hour-glass waning,
How vain, how thriftless our complaining!
Time, o'er my head thy wing has past
With swift, unseen, unconscious haste,
I feel already on my brow
Life's warm, yet temperate noon-day glow;
That life and joy are still decaying,
That all is spent in vision-weaving,
A strife of trusting and deceiving;
That time but mocks us as he flies,
Vexes our hearts and cheats our eyes!
Oh! as we mark the hour-glass waning,
How vain, how thriftless our complaining!
Time, o'er my head thy wing has past
With swift, unseen, unconscious haste,
I feel already on my brow
Life's warm, yet temperate noon-day glow;
