THE winds grow keener every day, as from the north they roam, and "Time is winging us away, to our eternal home." Old Father Time still is in haste, he makes his long legs whiz; he seems to have no hour to waste, though ages all are his. His eager stride he never slows, he never rests or stops, he breaks all speed laws as he goes, and laughs at traffic cops. He swings the seasons round so fast there is no pause betwixt, and summer heat and winter blast are sometimes badly mixed. The springtime comes, the robins call, but ere we've learned their strain, we find we're in the midst of fall, and cold November rain. We celebrate the noble Fourth, and ere the echoes die, a wind comes whooping from the north, and Christmas day is nigh. So let us do our shopping late, this merry, festive year, and fill the clerks, who on us wait, with thoughts that scorch and sear. Oh, Father Time, what is the rush? Is time too good to last? Lie down and rest—be quiet—hush! You make us old too fast! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SITTING by CECIL DAY LEWIS COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK ON THE SOUL by PUBLIUS AELIUS HADRIANUS LEE TO THE REAR [MAY 12, 1864] by JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON AUGUST SUNSET OVER LAKE CHAMPLAIN by FRANK A. BALCH LILIES: 27. THE WAVE-TOSSED VESSEL by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |