The forward view of life from youth is long,
Bright sanguine sally sure of ample years;
From aged stance such stretch seems but a song
That lingers on the lips of those held dear.
How does the passing time our brains beguile
Where years confound to weeks and weeks to days?
Would but the suffered length of lover’s miles
Contract to measured inches in these ways.
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.