SWEET TIME

SWEET Thyme, that underfoot so meekly grows

In humble company

Of splendid rose,

Is all content to be

The acolyte, as each man knows,

Of lavender, of rue, and rosemary.

Sweet Time, that pilfers all my precious years,

Will no wise blandishment

Or threat of tears

Bring you to pause, content?

— Hard-hearted greybeard, as he went,

He winked at me, and clicked his wicked shears.