How long they have been passing by my place!
As in a frieze antique they trained along.
Alternately an Hour and then a Grace,
How many vanished of that drifting throng!
The first I knew not—scarce shall know the last;
But each has wrought its change as on it passed.

Hostile the Hours—but this how could I know?
Each from a secret quiver drew a dart,
Frowning or smiling on me, aimed its blow.
Ofttimes 'twas long ere I would feel the smart;
Although a slow corrosion, working still,
Might leave a wasting wound in soul or will.

Hostile the Hours, for so Time missioned them;
But every Grace aboundingly was kind,
And brought a gift, of flower, or sunlit gem,
Nepenthe in a glass, or balm to bind
And lull the deepest hurt within Time's power—
Almost for this I loved the wounding Hour.

The Hours and Graces—now they grow a dream,
A frieze antique the unseen Fates unwind,
That into shadow dips or catches gleam.
Hostile the Hours, but every Grace is kind—
I doubt not kindest of them all, for me,
The Grace that softens the last Hour shall be.