This transient moment which we call our own, This tenuous span, this evanescent thing We call the present, hovers on bright wing Within our reach, enchants us, and has flown. We say this segment of all time is ours; But while we speak, or breathe, or laugh, or sigh, Ephemeral, elusive, it slips by And joins its brothers in the vanished hours. Yet this frail filament, spun on the loom Of time, this gossamer-like elf, so fleet, So eerie, so evasive, that appears Only to vanish -- this shall fix our doom; This welds the past and future -- binds our feet Upon the endless treadmill of the years. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISN'T IT ROMANTIC by KAREN SWENSON THE VALSE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR AFTERNOON ON A HILL by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE FAMILY MAN by JOHN GODFREY SAXE TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE ROSE'S MESSAGE by MARY WINCHESTER ABBOTT |