Little children gather ‘round,
Do you hear that trilling, lonely sound?
The voice of something sad and sweet,
Where thoughts such as sorrow and joy meet.
That’s the song of the past, fading;
Melody of tomorrow coming,
The tune in the air we breathe now,
Weight of the world fallen on our brow.
Listening crowd in the room,
Smiles on your faces as stories bloom,
You unknowing, me not saying:
The passing hours as they speed by,
The words you hear makes time to fly!
That which we obtain from these things
The innocent rapture that it brings,
More precious since they are things passing.
“Oh that life were everlasting!”
Yet the hours that end in the present,
Seems that they are much more pleasant
Than to while away the endless days;
I would not that to time we’re slaves.
So step lightly down the sunny streets,
Each second a departing sweet.
Evanescing time that slowly fills,
The lilting sound of coming thrills,
It will all come to coalesce.
It will all fill your aching chest.
Just as you hope for it all to stay,
Feel content that this is the way,
We are ascribed as poetic justice.
The end is what makes time luscious.
