Back to Index
The Passing of the Hours
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.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.