The Hand Of Time

She dreams beneath lamplight pale, Like Beauty in the fairy-tale Of Messrs. Grimm. And as I gaze, behold, a Thing, A shape, a face white, menacing, Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring Of figures dim.

Now o’er the figures dark I see A hand which moves relentlessly, Remorseless, black. The hand of Time--and through me flit The Solemn words by Omar writ, “Not all your piety nor wit Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose Like petals of a pearly rose After the rain. And as she notes, with startled eye, The Station Clock, I hear her cry, “It’s twenty minutes past--oh, my! I’ve missed my train.”