For we when gone are a long while dead.
Let thy thoughts now dwell on the present you see,
Not a past or a future continually.
Year in, year out, silent the hours of day I tell,
Nor vex like noisy clock or loudly chiming bell.
Hours misspent I’d liken to weeds,
With minutes for roots and seconds for seeds.
He who starts each day with doubts or fears,
Seldom smiles and is full of tears.
A circle, a gnomon, a shadow, a look,