by Elizabeth Bentley
THOU silent monitor, whose powers
Can thus with truth display,
How swiftly glide the fleeting hours
That form Life's transient day.
Thy hand yet points the lapse of time,
Tho' undiscern'd its pace;
From morn when gain'd meridian's prime,
How short appears the space!
Thus unperceiv'd our moments steal,
And when Life's noon is o'er,
Taught by their loss their worth we feel,
Tho' lightly prized before.
So well may every child of clay
His hour of grace employ,
That Death may close our mortal day,
To bring a morn of joy.
Last updated January 14, 2019