Time, Time, thy ticking rhyme
Bears onward in its flight
Events both lowly and sublime
Into eternal night.
From whence no deed can e'er return,
No idle word recall;
Where wasted hours lie unimproved
Within its darkened pall.
Borne on in one continued stream,
No discord in its rhyme;
For deep and broad the river flows,
The river of old Time.
What mysteries float down that stream,
Concealed beneath its tide,
Into the ocean's broad expanse,
Eternity so wide.
What secrets of our own sad hearts,
Immersed beneath its flood,
Lie buried in its sweeping tide,
Mingled with bad and good.
This stream between two oceans broad,
Which we call Time, is short;
It joins the past and future state
In one eternal part.
Eventful are the hours that glide
Unnoticed in their train;
For every moment bears a soul
Into the ocean's main.
How solemn should our precious hours
Be guarded as they pass,
And let no minute wasted lie
Heaped in the debris mass.
For wasted hours piled in the past
Shall be the monument
That speaks the lie to all this life
Burdened with discontent.
But Time employed with anxious will
Determined on its gain,
Will bear the record of a life
Worthy a higher name.
For discontent can never come
To busy minds at toil;
Proving the worth of passing hours
Within this earthy soil.
__James A. DeMoss
James A. DeMoss
(Thayer, Kansas: ___. 1892)