The forward view of life from youth is long
Assured in hope, abundant fruitful years;
From aged eyes such span seems but a song
That lingers on the lips of those held dear.
How can the passing time our brains beguile
That years confound to weeks and weeks to days?
Would but the suffered length of lover’s miles
Contract to measured inches in these ways.
No, Time’s hand serves but his stingy purposed own
And rare he grants beyond four score and ten,
Bequeathing here at best on shackled loan
A bounty that will not be spent again.
I smile and gaze upon my child’s face
Where love and hope eternal, Time disgrace.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.