And Time itself, in time, shall cease to move,
Only the Soul survives, and lives for aye.
Our bodies, every footstep that they make,
March towards death, until at last they die:
Whether we work, or play, or sleep, or wake,
Our life doth pass, and with Time's wings doth fly
But to the Soul, time doth perfection give,
And adds fresh lustre to her beauty still,
And makes her in eternal youth to live,