A CAROL FOR TIME.
Fold thy wing, Father Time, I've a carol for thee—
In thy gaunt, grisly form, nothing frightful I see.
Swing thy sharp-cutting scythe, let thy golden sands run—
Shall the toil-worn be sad that his task is half done?
In thy gaunt, grisly form, nothing frightful I see.
Swing thy sharp-cutting scythe, let thy golden sands run—
Shall the toil-worn be sad that his task is half done?
I chide not the years, though they fade from my sight,
Like a vision of beauty, a dream of the night;
They are scent-laden flowers, and their honey I sip,
Then I bid them farewell with a smile on my lip.
Like a vision of beauty, a dream of the night;
They are scent-laden flowers, and their honey I sip,
Then I bid them farewell with a smile on my lip.
Not thornless, 'tis true, as in lost Eden's bowers,
In Time's garden blossom the weeks, days, and hours;
But that briars are blessings, experience shows,
And Heaven sends us balm for our wounds and our woes.
In Time's garden blossom the weeks, days, and hours;
But that briars are blessings, experience shows,
And Heaven sends us balm for our wounds and our woes.
