HOW long they have been passing by my place! As in a frieze antique they trained along. Alternately an Hour and then a Grace, How many vanished of that drifting throng! The first I knew not -- scarce shall know the last; But each has wrought its change as on it passed. Hostile the Hours -- but this how could I know? Each from a secret quiver drew a dart, Frowning or smiling on me, aimed its blow. Ofttimes 'twas long ere I would feel the smart; Although a slow corrosion, working still, Might leave a wasting wound in soul or will. Hostile the Hours, for so Time missioned them; But every Grace aboundingly was kind, And brought a gift, of flower, or sunlit gem, Nepenthe in a glass, or balm to bind And lull the deepest hurt within Time's power -- Almost for this I loved the wounding Hour. The Hours and Graces -- now they grow a dream, A frieze antique the unseen Fates unwind, That into shadow dips or catches gleam. Hostile the Hours, but every Grace is kind -- I doubt not kindest of them all, for me, The Grace that softens the last Hour shall be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A POET'S EPITAPH by EBENEZER ELLIOTT PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER LOVE DISSEMBLED, FR. AS YOU LIKE IT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE OF BENEVOLENCE: AN EPISTLE TO EUMENES by JOHN ARMSTRONG BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 3. THE FIRST SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE: THIRD ECLOGUE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE DEVIL'S DRIVE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |