When ragged lines of passing days go by,
Crowding and hurried, broken-linked and slow,
Some sobbing pitifully as they pass,
Some angry-hot and fierce, some angry cold,
Some raging and some wailing, and again
The fretful days one cannot read aright,—
Then truly, when the fair days smile on us,
We feel that loveliness with sharper touch
And grieve to lose it for the next day’s chance.
And so men question—they who never know