Back to Index

The Passing of the Hours

by Ella Higginson, 1898

The hours steal by with still, unmasking lips—
     So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
     To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.
And yet however still their flight may be,
     Their ceaseless going weights my heart with tears;
These touches will have wrought deep scars on me—
     When the light hours have worn to heavy years.

Published in When the Birds Go North Again
Tags: aging, existential, time

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.