SWEET TIME
SWEET Thyme, that underfoot so meekly grows
In humble company
Of splendid rose,
Is all content to be
The acolyte, as each man knows,
Of lavender, of rue, and rosemary.
Sweet Time, that pilfers all my precious years,
Will no wise blandishment
Or threat of tears
Bring you to pause, content?
—Hard-hearted greybeard, as he went,
He winked at me, and clicked his wicked shears.