Slowly my window darkens; each bare limb Of the trees without is etched against the cold. A moment since the day did not seem old, Now it is creeping westward gray and grim. Like age's very self it turned to go, Clutching the dusk about it as a cloak, Shuffling through fallen leaves of beech and oak, With asthmic breath sighing into the snow. Of such strange stuff is time -- that through the heart Walks with uncertain step winter and summer, Too slow for youth, too fast for age, that number And number grows with every season's start. Who is not hurried by it or delayed Of neither night nor morrow will be afraid. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS'S POEMS by AMY LOWELL JOE HILL LISTENS TO THE PRAYING by KENNETH PATCHEN HE RULETH NOT THROUGH HE RAIGNE OVER REALMES by THOMAS WYATT ON A FAIR BEGGAR by PHILIP AYRES FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT by CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY BROOKS THE BATTLE-FIELD by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |