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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 |
Kansas Zephyrs
James A. DeMoss
(Thayer, Kansas: ___. 1892)
Pages 21-22
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