The Years - A poem by Frederick J. Atwood

The Years.

Once more is turned the glass;
Once more begin to pass
The swiftly flowing sands
That in all climes and lands
Mark Time's swift flight.

Age cannot check that flow,
Though Death, with tight-strung bow,
Impatient bides the hour
That gives into his power
A man of might.

Nor can Youth's eager haste
To seize, at once, and taste
Life's golden fruit so fair
That seems, oh, wondrous rare!
Augment its speed.

But ever on and on,
Heartless automaton^___
This stream is never low,
Its banks will ne'er o'erflow,^___
Yet give it heed.

It bears your life away,
It warns you of the day
That, be it soon or late,
Comes to both small and great,^___
The day, your last.

The years^___they come, they go,
Like the sea's ebb and flow;
Even as the pulses beat,
So fall their hurrying feet,
Till life is past.

Thy years, they soon will end;
Then heed them well; attend,
While run the sands for thee,
To those things that shall be
For lasting gain.

For past Death's awful door
Is Life forevermore;
A land where Time is not,
A home where are forgot
Sorrow and pain.

December 31, 1895, at midnight.

^__Frederick J. Atwood.