A Prayer Of Time

By Robert Laurence Binyon

Move onward, Time, and bring us sooner free

From this self--clouding turmoil where we ply

On others' errands driven continually:

O lead us to our own souls, ere we die!

We toil for that we love not; thou concealest

Our true loves from us; all we thirst to attain

Thou darkly holdest, and alone revealest

A mirror that our sighs for ever stain.

Art thou so jealous of our full delight?

Thou takest our strength, toil, fervour, and sweet youth;

And when thou hast taken these, thou givest sight

At last to see and to endure the truth.

Thou art too swift to our weak steps; but oh,

To our desire thou movest, Time, how slow!