Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO TIME, by GEORGE GORDON BYRON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Time! On whose arbitrary wing Last Line: Must fall upon -- a nameless stone. Alternate Author Name(s): Byron, Lord; Byron, 6th Baron Subject(s): Time | ||||||||
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die -- Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd Those boons to all that know thee known Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me Thy future ills shall press in vain: I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief; It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to woe; For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee -- not Eternity. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art A blank; a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform; The limit of thy sloth or speed When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon -- a nameless stone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEVEN EYES: FINAL SECTION by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: COME OCTOBER by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN SLOWLY: I FREQUENTLY SLOWLY WISH by LYN HEJINIAN ALL THE DIFFICULT HOURS AND MINUTES by JANE HIRSHFIELD A DAY IS VAST by JANE HIRSHFIELD FROM THIS HEIGHT by TONY HOAGLAND ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER' by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |
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