Ay me, ay me, I sigh to see the scythe afield. Down goeth the grass, soon wrought to withered hay; Ay me alas, ay me alas, that beauty needs must yield And princes pass, as grass doth fade away. Ay me, ay me, that life cannot have lasting leave, Nor gold take hold of everlasting joy: Ay me alas, ay me alas, that Time hath talents to receive, And yet no time can make a sure stay. Ay me, ay me, that wit cannot have wished choice, Nor wish can win that will desires to see: Ay me alas, ay me alas, that mirth can promise no rejoice, Nor study tell what afterward shall be. Ay me, ay me, that no sure staff is given to age Nor age can give sure wit that youth will take: Ay me alas, ay me alas, that no counsel wise and sage Will shun the show that all doth mar and make. Ay me, ay me, come Time, shear on, and shake thy hay, It is no boot to baulk thy bitter blows: Ay me alas, ay me alas, come Time, take everything away, For all is thine, be it good or bad, that grows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAPPHIC SUICIDE NOTE by JAMES GALVIN TO TIME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH by AMY LOWELL NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE |