Talk not of Time, I said, shut eyes and ears
To all the cruel wrong he does our bliss,
The lingering look he murders, and the kiss
He whelms beneath his weight of ponderous years.
Talk not of Time — the thought is barbed with fears
That pierce and rankle and fester — Love is his,
Is his to kill. He speaks the word, — we miss
The fruit of all our joy and all our tears.

So said I, as I watched the rosy west
Darken, and yet another day undone,
And all his glory into darkness hurled; —
And suddenly I felt my heavy breast
Lighten, and I bethought me of the sun,
Who sets to us, but never to the world.