The Sands of Time

Slow sift the sands of Time; the yellowed leaves Go drifting down an old and bitter wind; Across the frozen moors the hedges stand In tattered garments that the frost have thinned.

A thousand phantoms pluck my ragged sleeve, Wan ghosts of souls long into darkness thrust. Their pale lips tell lost dreams I thought mine own, And old sick longings smite my heart to dust.

I may not even dream of jeweled dawns, Nor sing with lips that have forgot to laugh. I fling aside the cloak of Youth and limp A withered man upon a broken staff.