The Sands of Time

Slow sift the sands of Time; the yellowed leaves

Go drifting down an old and bitter wind;

Across the frozen moors the hedges stand

In tattered garments that the frost have thinned.

A thousand phantoms pluck my ragged sleeve,

Wan ghosts of souls long into darkness thrust.

Their pale lips tell lost dreams I thought mine own,

And old sick longings smite my heart to dust.

I may not even dream of jeweled dawns,

Nor sing with lips that have forgot to laugh.

I fling aside the cloak of Youth and limp

A withered man upon a broken staff.