How rich hath Time become through her, His sands are turned to purest gold! And yet it grieves my heart full sore To see them slipping from my hold. How precious now each moment is, Which I must cast like dirt away! My only hope and comfort this -- Each moment will return that day, On that sweet day, that joyful hour When she lies willing in my power. Nay, these rich moments are not lost, But, like the morning's dewdrops, which Into the sun their sweet lives cast, To make his body far more rich -- So do these precious moments glide Into her being, where they store; Until I clasp her as my bride, And get them back with thousands more; Where they have banked in her sweet breast, And saved themselves with interest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STANZAS TO THE PO by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FOUND' (FOR A PICTURE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH by RICHARD HENRY STODDARD CORYDON - A PASTORAL by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH DUNCAN WEIR by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |