Gathering the passing seconds as they fall,
Beneath its grave and steady beat,
The longcase clock standing in the hall
Marks the length of my winding sheet.
One by one, the hours are felled,
Under the pendulum's stately measure;
And the streaming years, so lightly held,
Flung, reckless, to the wind; lost treasure.
The echo of footsteps on a Summer lane,
Beyond recall, for all that I may yearn.
A fleeting journey on a phantom train,
A single ticket, never a return.
Too much waste in unfocussed youth,
Too late I heard that remorseless tick.
Too long before I recognised the truth;
That if you would have a life, be quick.
Be quick.
