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Time's finger, with relentless power,
Doth furrow lines of care on brow;
With seeming malice frosts the hair,
With weight of years the form doth bow.


He takes from mind its keenest wit,
Makes dull the eye once shining bright,
From mem'ry takes its richest stores
Makes heavy step which once was light.


The heart makes sad which once was gay,
The senses dulled; e'en hope doth sleep;
The brightest mind grows dark in time;
Age for the past can only weep.


By hearthstone warm age loves to sit;
The world gives little pleasure now.
A retrospective book age cons,
Each page doth he with past endow.


The clock may stop, but Time goes on,
Regardless of man's hopes and fears;
And cares he not if face of man
Is wreathed in smiles or stained by tears.


Time ever mocks all youthful hopes;
He laughs at ever plan youth makes;
He buries fame and honor deep
In grave of hope--too late youth wakes.


We grasp at Time, but cannot hold
One minute of his treasured hour;
He tarries not, though oft we pray
That he will rest in youth's bright bower.