Sonnet 7

So many minds have contemplated Time,
And one day dubbed him fast, the next day slow,
Yet each knows he’s as constant as the tides;
‘Tis merely thinking such that makes things so.
No favorite plays he with mortal things;
The tortoise and the hare each have their hour,
And like as such the changing seasons bring,
Both life and death to every living flower;
For Time’s not fast or slow, but Time is just;
Majestic mountains are tomorrow’s sand,
And in such changing we may place our trust;
The vastest oceans are tomorrow’s land.
So come then, take my hand and walk with me,
And in proud step we’ll mock eternity.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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