It's weeks, no, months, perhaps a year, Since we have written anyone Down East. We are so busy here, So much to do, so little done -- The stock to feed, And neighbors in, And land to seed, And then begin To cultivate, and harvest -- so Time slips away before you know. Perhaps they say tonight down East: "We haven't written -- it's a crime -- Out West in months, a year at least; But then we never have the time: We're either out, Or entertain, We're just about -- About insane, With work, and places we must go; Time slips away before you know." Perhaps some day our own affairs Of great importance -- are they great? -- Will let us write, and so will theirs; God grant we do not write too late, Too late to tell Our love, alas, Or say farewell Before they pass -- And yet it often happens so; Time slips away before you know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RECOMPENSE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JOHN ERICSSON DAY MEMORIAL, 1918 by CARL SANDBURG UNDER A TELEPHONE POLE by CARL SANDBURG A MAN TO A WOMAN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SEA-BIRDS by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN IMITATION OF POPE: A COMPLIMENT TO THE LADIES by WILLIAM BLAKE |